


Eat Your Heart Out, Adonis

by blackmountainbones



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Beer, Blowjobs, Comeplay, Footjob, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Future Fic, M/M, Masturbation, Misanthropy, Misunderstandings, SUFFER WITH ME, UST is my kink, You just wait, actually all sports are gay, and a lot of pretty words, brojobs, bromoeroticism, broromantic relationship, bros to hos, but it's not, dong dong dong dong dong, drunk posting, have some angst as well why not, homoerotic massage, i'm going to put every homoerotic bro pun imaginable into these tags, ice skating is gay, seriously athletes drink a lot, the tags make this sound like crack, there's a lot of pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones
Summary: The year is 2021. The Beijing Winter Olympics are just around the corner, and Yuri Plisetsky is forced to take a break from skating in order to recover from an ankle injury. His friend Otabek comes to Russia to keep him company during his time off the ice. UST follows.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK. I am sportsgay trash now. This is the person I have become. I know we were given a wonderful CANON ship, but all the years without LGBTQ+ representation has fucked me in the head. Now I can't get off without an overflowing helping of UST, so of course I latched onto the not-quite-canon ship. Of course. 
> 
> This fic takes place in 2021. Yuri is 21, Otabek 24. Haters can eat me.
> 
> (summary and notes edited 12/29 because I don't understand how time works. the 2022 Beijing Olympics are a major plot point. alcohol is bad, children.)

Yuri dragged himself up from the ice, wincing as he put his weight on his right ankle. 

From where he was standing on the sidelines, Victor noticed the subtle movement. Yuri rarely let his discomfort show, and the grimace he wore was proof enough that he was hurting. Concerned, he drifted over to the younger skater, who was subtly favoring his left leg as he skated in a lazy circle around the rink, attempting to work out the kinks from his fall.

“I think that’s enough for today, don’t you?” Victor asked, skating up alongside his student.

Yuri snarled. “I haven’t landed a quad loop all day.”

“All the better reason to quit for the day. C’mon, let’s begin the cool-down,” Victor said. Yuri shook his head but resumed skating at a leisurely pace, occasionally working in a few lazy step sequences, as he let his heart rate slow.

After a few minutes of active cool-down, Yuri skated off the rink. As soon as he removed his skates, Victor guided him into a standing stretch, subtly inspecting Yuri’s ankle for swelling. The younger skater gasped when Victor rotated the ankle gently.

“For the next two weeks, you are off the ice. No skating, no running, no ballet. You have to crosstrain, give your joints a break for a bit,” Viktor counseled him.

“No skating, no running, no ballet--Jesus Christ, what the hell am I supposed to do for the next two weeks?”

Viktor shrugged. “You could swim. Ride a bike. Still valuable endurance exercise, but much easier on your joints.” He watched Yuri stretching in the studio mirror with a critical eye. “I’m serious, Yuri. Your body’s changed a lot these last few months. You’ve gained fifteen pounds--which--” the silver-haired man put his hands up in self-defense as he saw Yuri draw in a sharp breath--”Fifteen pounds of muscle, Yuri. You agreed to this,” Victor admonished. “You need more power to land your jumps since last year. You have to build muscle if you want to continue to be competitive.”

Yuri groaned, backing down. The 2020 season had been the worst of his professional career: he’d unexpectedly grown two-and-a-half inches in a late growth spurt, ending up six foot tall despite all odds. He’d only podiumed twice, and gotten bronze each time.  Even his footwork had been off that year. “Don’t remind me of that terrible year.”

“Look, Yuri, I’m your coach for a reason, OK? Trust me on this,” Victor said. “I know I say it all the time, but listen to me this time. Two weeks off skates, and we’ll have you do a few sessions, then reassess.”

Yuri blanched. Beijing was only nine months away, and any time off the ice this close to the Games was risky.

“I know you don’t want to take time off the ice so close to the Olympics, but you have to give your joints a chance to get used to carrying more weight before you start practicing your jumps. At your age, Yuri, you might be able to recover from an injury, but you might never be the  _ same. _ ” At this, Victor grimaced, shaking his left knee, the one he’d broken just a couple of years before he’d finally retired for good. 

Yuri wasn’t stupid. He knew Victor was right--he’d seen too many skaters forced into early retirement by stress injuries caused by their growing bodies. His ability to transition from a child prodigy into a career as a skating professional depended on it. If Yuri was careful, he had another five or six competitive years left in him, but he needed to take care of his body differently if he was going to do it. “Fine,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

“That’s my Yurio!” Victor chirped, slinging an arm over Yuri’s shoulder. 

Yuri immediately regretted giving in. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, shrugging out of Victor’s embrace and skating toward the locker rooms.

“Don’t forget to see me after you shower to discuss your training regimen for the next few weeks,” Victor called after him, watching him retreat.

His teenage years behind him, Yuri was on the cusp of becoming one of the most accomplished adult skaters, and Victor hoped the angry young man would be able to make that transition. The coach had seen a lot of different skaters in his two-and-half-decades in the sport. There were a lot of ways to make it: some skaters were naturally gifted, or privileged enough to have access to the best coaches. Only a rare few relied on raw intelligence to propel them on the ice--Yuri, he realized, was one of those skaters, as curious as he was competitive. 

When learning a new move or routine, Yuri approached each jump methodically, breaking it down as if it were a technical problem, and Victor delighted in seeing him puzzle out each routine on the ice. Yuri frequently overshot in practice, and fell more than most other skaters during training, but Victor recognized that he was just testing a hypothesis as the ice tiger was one of the most reliable skaters when it counted, rarely ever committing an error in competition. He would begin by mastering the technical aspects, then adding a bit of poetry to his skating. His performances were more often than not a tour-de-force, and he suspected Yuri, despite his anger, would be a masterful coach one day.

However, it would be a tragedy if Yuri were forced to prematurely end his skating career. At 21, he had at least another Olympic campaign left in him, if he could figure out how to work with, rather than against, his new build....

Victor shook the thoughts from his head, turning his attention back to the rink. “Sofiya, warm up!” he called, transitioning back into coach mode as he watched his youngest skater take a few loops around the rink. “I want your step sequences perfect today...”

 

Yuri spent the rest of the day moping around the dingy, Soviet-era apartment he had moved into two years ago, finally emancipated from Yakov’s watchful eyes and later, Victor and Yuuri’s annoying constant caretaking. Though it was dark and small, Yuri loved the closeness of the space, how it was all _ his. _ Most days, he loved having a place of his own. 

_ Most _ days. Certainly today was not one of them. He paced, feeling restless and confined, unable to sit still long enough for his cats to cuddle up next to him. He’d finally settled on his bed, with his laptop perched on his thighs, attempting to concentrate long enough to play Civilization, but not even world domination was doing anything to assuage his mood.

Impulsively, Yuri opened Skype and called Otabek, who answered after just a few rings.

“Yuri,” the Kazakh said, his voice scratchy with sleep. 

“I’m sorry, Beka, did I wake you up?” The room was dark; Otabek’s face was half-illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen.

The other boy waved his hand, making a disapproving noise. “Not really. I was reading.”

Yuri smiled softly, knowing that meant Otabek had been sleeping, yet answered his call anyway.

There was a rustling noise as Otabek sat up in bed, reaching over to turn on his bedside lamp to reveal his shirtless torso. Yuri took a deep breath, hoping Otabek would not notice his sudden breathlessness or the flush that heated his cheeks. “What’s up?”

“Ugh, nothing. Just that damn Victor and his piggy--they’re making me take  _ another  _ two weeks off the ice and off the barre.”

Otabek cocked his head, waiting for Yuri to continue. When it became clear that Yuri had nothing else to say, he cleared his throat. “How’s your ankle?”

Yuri shook his head, amused at how efficiently Otabek had skipped over the awkward questions and right into the heart of the matter. He lifted his leg, rotating his ankle. It felt stiff, but not too uncomfortable, but he knew Victor was right. “It’s better. Not great, though.” He sighed.

“It’s just two weeks, Yura.”

Yuri scowled. “The Olympics are coming up. You know as well as I that two weeks of training can make or break the podium.”

Otabek’s face softened with concern, rolling over onto his side. The sheet covering his lower torso fell back to reveal the curve of his hip and the cut of his abdominal muscles, no evidence of clothing anywhere on his golden skin.

Yuri’s mouth went suddenly dry.  _ Is he... naked? _ he wondered, feeling his heart quicken in his chest.

“.... an injury to heal--”

“Wait, what? I missed that.”

Otabek glared at him, but there was no malice in it. Rather, his eyes sparked with a dangerous humor. “I was saying that two weeks might be a long time to be off the ice, but eight months is a long enough time for your ankle to heal.”

Yuri crossed his arms around himself. “I guess.”

“Oh, Yura. Don’t pout.”

“Hey! I’m not pouting!”

Otabek threw his head back, laughing in his private way, really more of a shaking of the shoulders than an actual sound. When he looked back at the screen, Yuri was glaring at him. “But you’ll still be doing your strength training, right?”

Yuri leaned back against the headboard. “Yeah, Victor says he wants me to concentrate on the weights and endurance training. No running though. Swimming and bikes only.”

“It’s not the ice, but you’ll still be training. That’s good--you’ve been getting so much stronger lately,” Otabek said. “You look good.”

Yuri felt his face burn at his friend’s comment.  _ Shut up, Plisetsky. He doesn’t mean it like that.  _ “You think so?”

Otabek’s eyes narrowed, and even through the screen, Yuri could see the way his friend’s eyes raked up and down his body. Suddenly, he was self-conscious and hyper-aware of the fact that he was wearing nothing more than a threadbare wife-beater, so old it was nearly see-through. “Yeah.”

Yuri was certain he could feel his blush burning all the way down his very-exposed chest. He waited a moment, but Otabek said nothing more. Swallowing, he tried to find his voice, but all he could manage was an undignified-sounding grunt.

On the other side of the screen, Otabek was running his fingers absentmindedly over his face. Finally, he spoke:  “Listen, Yura. I might be able to visit, distract you from not being able to skate...”

Yuri straightened his back. “You think so?” he asked, trying not to sound so eager.

Otabek nodded. “It might be for only a few days. But I think Aslanov would be OK with it, if he knew I could practice while I was out there...”

“Beka! You’re supposed to be distracting me from the ice!” Yuri whined.

“Ah, but you’ll be at the gym all day, I’ll have to entertain myself somehow.”

Yuri sighed. “Fine.”

“You want me to visit you, Yuratchka?” A note of teasing accented Otabek’s words.

“Yes.” Yuri tried to sneer, but the words came out far too softly, almost a plea.

Otabek nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Yuri’s. “So I will come.”

The two of them chatted for a few more minutes after that, making vague plans and catching up before Otabek started yawning.

“Shit, Beka, look at the time! It must be after midnight.”

“Ah, almost one, actually.”

“You should have told me it was late!”

Otabek rolled his eyes. They both knew that despite six years of long-distance friendship, Yuri’s grasp of how timezones worked was tenuous at best. They said their goodbyes, Otabek promising to call him tomorrow night to plan his visit.

 

Two thousand miles away, Otabek closed his laptop.

Shit, Yuri had looked really good... It had been five months since they’d last seen each other, at last year’s Grand Prix Final. Yuri had been taller than him for a couple of years now, but Otabek hadn’t been prepared for the way the Russian’s latest growth spurt would make it difficult to look into his friend’s eyes without tilting his chin up. 

Even at the Grand Prix, Yuri had still had the same willowy grace he’d always had. After his disappointing third-place finish, he’d confided to Otabek that Victor had started him on an intensive weight-training program to improve his jumps. He’d noticed that Yuri had seemed hesitant about putting on weight--he’d always had the long, spare musculature of a ballet dancer--and Otabek had had to reassure him that the added muscle wouldn’t make him bulky or fat.

In the tiny tank top he’d been wearing, it was obvious that the weight suited him. His chest and shoulders were broader, stronger...

Otabek let out a soft moan as he closed his eyes, running the rough fingertips of one hand down his chest, feeling the way the callouses caught on the sensitive skin of his stomach, imagining that his hand was not his own: that the fingers were longer, softer.... 

His cock was already hard when he grasped it. He pumped slowly, letting himself linger on the image of his best friend, lying in bed, wearing nothing but that ridiculous tank top, nothing--

He stroked faster, imagining Yuri reaching over his head to remove the stupid shirt. Christ, his nipples would be so pink, and so hard, drawn up into tight peaks as Otabek pinched them... His cock jumped in his grip, leaking a bit of precome at the tip. 

Otabek tightened his grip, listening to how the lubrication made an obscene sound as his fist moved over his cock. He watched the red head of his dick peeking through the thick foreskin as he stroked down, tickling the frenulum with his free hand. God, in the dim light, he could almost believe the hand gripping him was slim and pale.

He thrust his hips up into the waiting circle of his hand, using the other to tickle behind his balls. Yuri had grown so much since they’d met in Barcelona six years ago... Otabek used to dream of gathering his small, slim frame in his arms, covering Yuri’s body completely with his own. But with the new strength evident in his shoulders, Otabek could imagine Yuri enveloping him, pushing his knees up forcefully to expose his hole....

A finger dared to dance over his entrance, and Otabek willed himself to relax.  _ Yes, _ he thought,  _ yes, like this-- _

He pushed the fingertip past his rim. But before he could insert the rest of the finger, the knot in his lower belly pulled tight, and he came over his chest and stomach before he even knew what was happening, leaving him gasping.

Otabek wrinkled his nose, using a corner of the sheet to wipe his stomach dry. Normally, he’d be disgusted by getting semen on the bedclothes,  but somehow he was comforted by the idea of the smell of sex lingering on his body and the bedsheets. 

As he lay back against the pillows, he could almost imagine Yuri cradling his body, the scent of sex lingering on their skin as they drifted to sleep. With this image in mind, Otabek drifted into sleep.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr @the-stoned-ranger. feel free to yell at me about gay sports and send me prompts or headcanons.

Victor was a sadist. There was no other way to explain the training regimen he’d assigned Yuri--two sessions per day, with only one rest day, an  _ active _ rest day, no less. His first day of off-ice training consists of a two-hour  weight-training session in the morning, then three hours on the bike in the afternoon.

He was exhausted, absolutely wrecked, by the time he got back to his apartment in the early evening, muscles aching. His legs, especially, shook with the effort of climbing the three flights of stairs to his apartment. All he wanted was food, lots of it, followed by an ice bath.

Before he finished heating up last night’s leftovers, he heard his phone ring--it was Otabek, keeping his promise to call today about visiting St Petersburg. In his eagerness, Yuri scrambled to take the call, momentarily forgetting that he was still drenched in sweat, wearing his cycling kit.

Unlike the night before, Otabek was seated at his kitchen table, fully clothed. Yuri couldn’t help the surge of disappointment that surged when he realized that Otabek was fully clothed--unusual for his friend, who rarely ever bothered to wear a shirt at home. Not for the first time, Yuri wondered if Otabek was a closet nudist, a suspicion that seemed to only be affirmed whenever he visited Almaty, as the man only bothered to wear the absolute minimum of clothing necessary to avoid scandalizing his neighbors...

“What’s with the shirt?” Otabek said in greeting, not bothering with pleasantries. Even through the computer screen, Yuri could feel his brown eyes raking over the long line of his torso, exposed by the unzipped jersey.

Suddenly self-conscious, Yuri closed the zipper. “You know what’s with the shirt, idiot,” he grumbled. “I just got back from training. Haven’t had a chance to change.” He ran an awkward hand through his sweaty hair, which was full of tangles. He’d been so anxious to take the call that he hadn’t even bothered to make sure he was presentable. Shit, he probably looked disgusting...

Otabek merely cocked an eyebrow. “I talked to Aslanov this morning,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “And?”

“I can take ten days. As long as Viktor is OK with coaching me while I’m there.”

Yuri sat upright. “I’ll ask him. Don’t think it will be a problem, since one of his skaters is off ice for the next two weeks....”

“Yuri,” Otabek admonishes, exasperated. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

“You mean it’s  _ not _ ?” Yuri asked. It certainly  _ felt _ like punishment, even if he couldn’t help the way his body was changing. 

Otabek didn’t say anything, but his expression stiffened. 

Yuri immediately felt ashamed for acting like the bratty fifteen-year-old he had been when he and Otabek had first become friends. “I mean, I  _ know _ it’s not. But it feels like it,” he explained, breaking eye contact. He couldn’t explain, but he hoped Otabek would understand.

After all, athletes were supposed to master their bodies, not the other way around. They trained for hours, attempting to sculpt their unwieldy flesh into controlled weapon. This latest growth spurt felt like a betrayal, like the body he had spent the last twenty years cultivating was suddenly rebelling. 

On the other side of the screen, Otabek’s expression softened. “You’ll be back on the ice before you know it. And you’ll be more powerful than ever.” The admiration was thick in his voice.

Yuri flushed. “You think so?"

Otabek smiled, the white of his teeth contrasting with the golden-brown of his skin. “I  _ know _ you, Yuri,” he said, so emphatically that something inside of Yuri caught in his throat.

He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Thank you for believing in me,” he said softly, looking down at his hands where they twisted together in his lap. “Now can we cut all the sappy shit? I think Viktor is trying to kill me.”

“He’s your coach, Yura. He doesn’t want you to die.”

“Well, he had me do two hours of kettlebells this morning, followed by three hours on the bike!”

Otabek whistled, impressed. 

“And you think that’s bad? He’s got me doing two hours of interval training tomorrow!” Yuri couldn’t help smiling as he complained. This, at least, was familiar. Normal. He could ignore the strange tightness in his stomach, that uncomfortable tension he seemed to feel during all their conversations lately, whether Otabek is shirtless or not, as long as he was busy mocking Viktor and his ridiculous coaching strategies.

“You’ll be stronger in no time,” Otabek assured him.

“And my rest day is a yoga class, followed by two hours in the pool.”

“That actually sounds pretty restful.” The bastard is being  _ sarcastic _ , damn him.

Yuri sticks his tongue out in response, and Otabek throws his head back in laughter, real laughter, not the strange silent shaking he’s prone to. Yuri watched the way his adam’s apple bobbed, his throat exposed and prone, as he laughed. 

He was hit by a flash of something, not quite a memory, but almost: Otabek below him, the wide expanse of his brown back below his own, his neck stretched back, exposed as Yuri sank his teeth into the yielding flesh--

“Yuri?”

He grumbled an apology, forcing the fantasy from his head as he spoke. “I’m out of it, Beka. I haven’t eaten yet.” It’s not the whole truth, but Otabek didn’t have to know that. He got up to put the abandoned plate of leftovers in the microwave.

“Oh. Well, I’ll email you the details about the flight when I buy the tickets. You’ll be back to regular training by the 17th, no?”

“As long as Viktor thinks I’m strong enough.”

Otabek was  _ looking _ at him again when the microwave buzzer went off. “I’ll email you,” he repeated before ending the call.

Yuri stared at the blank screen for a long moment before he bothered to remove his plate from the microwave. He barely tasted his food as he ate in silence. Despite the cats begging at his feet, the apartment felt  _ empty _ \--which was weird. He  _ liked _ his apartment, liked having the space to himself after so many years spent in close quarters with his coaches or other skaters. Yuri Plisetsky could keep himself company, thank you very much...

Yet that didn’t change the fact that his apartment was lonely; he rarely had guests, and truthfully only a handful of people had even seen the interior of his place. In fact, when he’d first moved in, he would refer to the place as his Fortress of Solitude, just like Superman’s lair in the cartoons he’d watched as a child. Yet that didn’t change the fact that what had felt like freedom at nineteen had become oppressive.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the meowing of his cat, Dizzy--the fat orange beast had jumped up onto the table and was currently begging for food. He didn’t have the heart to kick her off the table; instead, he cut a piece of meat and offered it to her. The cat greedily ate the food from his fingertips, purring softly as she licked the juices off his fingertips.

“I only let you get away with this because you’re cute,” he muttered. All Dizzy had to say in response was  _ meow _ .

 

After eating, Yuri was restless again. He decided to walk over to Viktor’s apartment--he hadn’t yet told him about Otabek’s plan to visit, and though he doubted Viktor will say no to coaching him during his stay, it was only polite to let the man know that he would have an extra student ahead of time.

Viktor and Yuuri lived in a modern apartment building only a few blocks away. Yuri had teased them when they’d bought the place: it was truly extravagant, all chrome and windows, way too big for the two of them and their stupid dog, a massive, excitable Goldendoodle with a drooling problem named Miso. But even Yuri had to grudgingly admit that they had managed to make the ultra-modern architecture look homey and welcoming. All in all, it was an attractive apartment, much more comfortable than his own grungy little home.

Yuuri answered the door, gesturing him in with one hand while the other held Miso back from jumping on Yuri to lick his face in greeting. “Viktor’s not back from the rink yet, but you’re welcome to stay if you want to wait for him.”

“What are you making?” Despite the earlier meal, Yuri was still starving, a side effect of the intense exercise he’d subjected his body to earlier that day.

Yuuri hummed. “Braised tofu with chicken and mushrooms.” He handed Yuri a knife, and he quickly made himself useful, slicing a through the pile of shiitake and oyster mushrooms on the counter. Yuuri didn’t try to talk to him and they prepared the meal together in companionable silence.

Yuri would never admit it out loud, but he kind of liked spending time with the Japanese man like this. Unlike Viktor, his husband didn’t try to fill up the quiet with a million words, at least half of them stupid.

Viktor arrived just as Yuuri began plating the tofu. He stood behind his husband, nuzzling his face into Yuuri’s thick black hair. 

“Viktor, stop that! I’m trying to get dinner on the table.”

“I’d rather eat you instead,” Viktor grinned. His smile was all teeth.

“Gross, you guys! I’m right here!”

Viktor glanced over his shoulder. “Yurio, what are you doing here?”

“Trying not to lose my appetite,” he grumbled as Yuuri set down a plate in front of him. 

Viktor chose to ignore him in favor of groping Yuuri’s ass possessively.

Yuuri swatted him. “Behave,” he warned as he sat down to eat. “Or else I’ll have to punish you later.”

Yuri rather violently mimed puking, but he was so hungry that not even the sexual innuendo could prevent him from inhaling his dinner. Yuuri Katsuki was a disgusting human being, but he was also an awesome cook, and the chicken stir-fry was no exception. 

As Viktor and Yuuri debated over whether or not to include , Yuri walked over to the wok on the stove, serving himself another heaping helping of chicken and rice.

“Seconds, Yuri?” Viktor quirked his brow. “I know that you’re working hard, but remember, you don’t want to bulk up any more than you have already before you return to the ice. Your joints won’t be able to handle it during your jumps.”

“Viktor! Don’t be rude!” Yuuri shot his husband a withering look. “Yurio is our guest.”

Yuri sneered at the nickname, but he kept eating, just to spite Viktor. “Otabek’s coming for a visit on Thursday.” he said, apropos of nothing.

“That’s wonderful, Yurio,” Yuuri said.

“Ah, your Otabek is coming for a conjugal visit?” Viktor asked, knowing smile on his face.

Yuri kicked him underneath the table. “It’s not a  _ conjugal _ anything, asshole. He’s coming to distract me from not being able to skate, which is your stupid idea, in case you forgot.” 

Viktor’s eyes sparkled with a dangerous humor. “Ah, yes, that reminds me... How are you liking your new training program?”

Yuri cursed him to hell. “You’re a sadist,” he spat. “I don’t know why Otabek wants you to train him while he’s here.”

“Is this your way of asking me if I’ll coach him during his visit?” Viktor set his glass down with a heavy  _ clink _ .

“Aslanov said he could stay until the 17th, but only as long as he doesn’t slack off,” Yuri explained.

Viktor took a bite of his dinner, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t think that will be a problem.” He turned to Yuuri, who had been watching his husband and their angry adopted son with an amused smirk. “What do you say, babe? Want to train Yuri’s Otabek with me?”

Yuuri reached for Viktor’s hand, stroking it softly. “Of course, darling. Otabek’s a good skater, but he could really benefit from more dance instruction...”

Yuri let his mind wander as Viktor and Yuuri debated whether Otabek’s free skate would be improved more by salsa or tango.

“Well, I for one am exhausted,” Viktor said as he gathered the empty plates and glasses from the table, depositing them in the sink.

Yuuri stretched seductively, letting his shirt ride up to expose his stomach as he showed off his flexibility. “Me too,” he agreed, nuzzling Viktor’s hair.

“OK, guys, I get it. This is your way of telling me to go home so you can do terrible things to one another. Congratulations, it’s working.”

“Goodnight, Yurio!” Viktor chirped as he rested his hands on Yuuri’s hips. “Now babe, why don't you show me what you learned in your twerking class today--”

Yuri slammed the door behind him.

 

He took the long way home, deciding to detour through the promenade along the Neva River. It was unusually warm for early May in St. Petersburg, and he was determined to enjoy as much of the weather as possible before the rainy season began.

It seemed like the entire population of the Petrogradsky district had had the same idea: the promenade and the park were crowded with strolling pedestrians and screaming children. Yuri huffed. Why had he thought this was a good idea again?

In spite of the bitter cold, Yuri would always prefer St Petersburg in the winter. At least then, he could walk along the promenade in peace... 

The last time Otabek had visited had been in February, right in the heart of the brutal Russian winter. His friend had intended to stay for only a couple of days as a kind of extended layover on his return to Almaty following an intensive six-week training workshop in Detroit, but he’d ended up staying nearly a week as a series of blizzards had cancelled his flight twice. Yuri knew Otabek was anxious to get back home and see his family after such a long absence, but he had been secretly pleased that the weather had forced Otabek to stay a few days longer.

It had been during the second blizzard that they’d come here. Yuri, antsy with excess energy from cancelled practice combined with being cooped up inside for two days, had insisted that they brave the storm for a walk. They’d had the park to themselves that day--the rest of the city was content to watch the blizzard from inside their warm houses while the two friends had held on to each other, slipping and skidding like a pair of drunks on the icy ground as they walked into the wailing wind. 

Yuri remembered how Otabek had slid and fallen down into a snowdrift, remembered the way he had laughed to see his friend sprawled on the ground, limbs akimbo. Otabek had pelted him with a snowball, and Yuri had retaliated immediately. They’d spent the next hour engaged in an all-out snowball war, until their feet and fingers and faces had gone numb...

His reverie was interrupted by a feminine stage-whisper. A cluster of teenager girls were staring at him, chattering excitedly amongst themselves from where they were sitting in the grass.

“Oh my God, is that...?”

“He looks so pretty when he smiles!” another girl tittered.

Yuri came back to himself, surprised to realize that he’d been smiling to himself over the memory. “I need to stop spending so much time with Viktor and his piggy before I turn into a sentimental idiot,” he muttered to himself, schooling his features back into a harsh scowl before his young fans attempted to approach him.

The scowl worked, and the girls left him alone. Instead of risking being recognized again, Yuri decided to head back home.

 

The first thing he did when he got back home was throw himself onto his couch. Immediately, his two ragdoll cats launched themselves into his lap, purring and kneading his thighs for affection. He absentmindedly scratched them behind their ears as he scrolled through his Instagram feed.

Suddenly, his Snapchat pinged with a notification. He opened the app to see that Otabek had sent him a screenshot of his plane ticket, captioned simply with  _ see you soon! _

He lifted his arm over his head, taking a picture of himself giving the thumb’s up, his two cats nestled against his chest at the bottom of the frame.  _ Can’t wait _ , he typed, mentally cringing a moment after sending the picture.  _ Could you  _ be _ more eager? _ he asked himself, an angry flush heating his cheeks. 

A few seconds later, he received another picture, this time of Otabek smiling devilishly in the foreground. Behind him was a computer with an in-progress game of Civilization on the screen.  _ Ready to lose Odessa? _

Yuri sent back a selfie--this time with one of his hands held next to his face, his index and middle finger pointed, as he squinted as though he was looking down the sight of a gun. He wasted no time reaching for his laptop, startling Dizzy and Drowsy off of his lap with the quick movement, then booted up Civ, loading their most recent game.

He did, in fact, lose Odessa--as well as three more cities--to Otabek’s army of Mongolian horse archers as they trash-talked each other over Skype on their phones. 

“I don’t know why you’re a figure skater when you could be the next Napoleon,” he complained, yawning as he waited for Otabek to finish his turn.

“Hmm,” Otabek grunted. “I’d be a terrible soldier. Too much blood.” He cringed, pulling a face.

“Shame,” Yuri said. “You’re a great strategist.” The last word was garbled by another yawn.

When he opened his eyes, Otabek was watching him again, with the same intensity as he had that afternoon, when Yuri had been wearing his unzipped cycling jersey. “You’re tired,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Yuri agreed. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, but his body felt heavy, especially his eyelids. “Today’s workout was brutal.”

“Go to sleep,” Otabek said. He completed his turn, then exited the game. “Goodnight, Yuratchka.”

“Goodnight,” he responded, shutting down the laptop and exiting the call. Something in Yuri twinged at the affectionate nickname but he tried not to think about that too hard. Luckily, Viktor’s sadistic workout regimen had tired him out enough that he drifted to sleep just a moment later, right there where he lay on the couch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the muse heard you last time! thanks so much for all the kudos & comments. the muse is still a kinky slut who wants you to tell her she's good.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: very mild dubcon. someone jerks off while someone else is sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor edits 1/5/2016 for tense agreement and a deleted fragment. this is why i shouldn't post and drink. but will i do it anyway? yes.

Yuri’s phone alarm went off at five thirty the next morning.

He groped for it blindly in the couch cushions, disturbing a slumbering Drowsy who mewled in protest. Finally, he located the offending alarm.

He dismissed it, then sat up, wincing. Jesus Christ, you’d think he would learn by now not to sleep on that evil couch. He was pretty certain that the cushions were stuffed with stones...

He really should get rid of the couch, he thought. It was ugly as well as uncomfortable. He could certainly afford a new one--probably not one as nice as the overstuffed suede monstrosity in Viktor and Yuuri’s living room, but you didn’t need to spend much to get a couch better than his current one.

But he hadn’t. Yuri Plisetsky was not a sentimental man; he did not get attached to inanimate objects the way Viktor did. He regularly cleaned out his closets, purging clothing that didn’t fit and old costumes. He’d have thrown out the costumes he’d worn at his first Grand Prix Final gold if Viktor hadn’t insisted on adding them to his collection, which had grown so out-of-control he and the piggy had had to convert one of their three bedrooms into a dressing room. Yuri’s own apartment, by contrast, was Spartan, uncluttered and nearly devoid of personal touches, and he preferred it that way.

The couch, however ugly and uncomfortable, however, was one of the few objects Yuri could not bring himself to get rid of. It was one of the few things he’d kept after his grandfather had died two years ago. Even now, he wasn’t quite sure why he kept it, other than the fact that the memories attached to the couch were some of the few things that made his apartment feel like _home_. It was as though the couch had absorbed his grandfather’s essence; even now, two years later, Yuri sometimes imagined he could still smell the burnt-vanilla scent of the cigars Nikolai had favored.

From the kitchen, Dizzy (the fatter of his cats, by far) began wailing for her breakfast. Yuri dragged himself upright and the day began, just like any other.

 

He threw himself into his workouts for the next two days, unable to do little more than eat and sleep and eat some more when he wasn’t hitting the weights or putting in the miles on his bike. Viktor had warned him against doing any extraneous activity during his skating sabbatical (“you’ve got to strengthen the muscles around your joints and ligaments, Yuri; that’s what’s going to help you land your jumps safely”), so he spent most of his free time sleeping or in the tub, soothing his sore muscles with epsom salts and ice baths.

Which was just as well, really. Otabek was busy preparing for his trip to St Petersburg, and though he didn't have the time to play Civ or Skype, he still sent the occasional Snapchat--mostly complaints about how Aslanov was forcing him to skate the step sequences over and over and finding fault every time.

 _Pussy_ , Yuri thought. Aslanov was a good coach, but far too easy on his skaters. If Otabek was complaining this much about Aslanov suddenly riding his ass on his step sequences, after his week with Victor, he’d be crying like a little bitch.

In retaliation, Yuri sent him back a picture of his aching legs, captioned with a string of creative curses.

It took Otabek a long time to respond.

 

Back in Almaty, Otabek stripped out of his sweats and briefs, undressing for bed. He hated sleeping clothed (to be honest, he only ever bothered when he had guests), preferring to feel the smooth, cool sheets against his skin. What was the point of buying sheets with an exorbitant thread count if you were just going to sleep in shitty scratchy pajamas?

Reaching over to his bedside table, he noticed a Snapchat notification on his lock screen. He grabbed his phone and opened the latest snap from Yuri.

It was obvious that Yuri had taken the picture in a mirror--it’s just his lower body, but Otabek could see the glare from the sun’s reflection in the glass. He was barefoot, wearing only a pair of white cycling shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, padded crotch be damned, his long and perfect toes painted a defiant shade of neon pink.

But it wasn’t the pink polish that grabbed his attention: Yuri’s thighs are thicker, the muscles of his calves more well defined than Otabek has ever seen them before, stronger without being bulky. They were still lean and graceful, just like they’d always been, but the new muscle hinted at a new power.

Otabek closed his eyes, breathing deep to get himself under control. When he opened them, the image was gone, and he stared at the blank screen. It didn’t matter than the snap had expired after only a few seconds. The image has been burned onto his brain and he will never forget the shape of Yuri’s thighs, the bulge of his penis pressed against his stomach under the skintight material. He thought he might die of it.

He’d always loved Yuri’s legs, even when they were shorter than his own, loved the way they moved with grace and determination both on the ice and off and all the impossible ways they bend and flex. He’d loved them even in the awkward stage shortly after Yuri’s first growth spurt, even though Yuri had complained about his bony chicken legs before he’d finally started to fill out a year later. He’d _especially_ loved them when the sparse blonde hair had thickened and curled--when Yuri had complained about the scratchiness and threatened to shave at Worlds that year, Otabek hadn’t been able to suppress a panicked _don’t._ Yuri had looked at him strangely then, head cocked in an unspoken question, but at least he had never threatened to shave them again.

His phone heavy in his hand, Otabek tried to swallow. His mouth had gone strangely dry, his breath stuck in his throat. With shaking hands, he rested the phone camera to his bare hips, watching as his thighs came into focus, the soft light of the lamp beside his bed emphasizing the cut of his quadriceps. He angled the phone so the tops of his thighs were at the bottom of the screen, the focus softening on his lower legs, blurry toes touching the top of the screen. Before he could regret it, he pressed the shutter.

Otabek knows his legs are shorter and stockier than Yuri’s. Most skaters had long, lean limbs like ballerinas, but Otabek had never been built that way. He’d always put on muscle easily, maybe too easily, and his skating relies less on grace (of which he’d never had much anyway) and more on his own power and determination. His legs were a testament to those two principles: thick with well-defined muscles, a few fading bruises from badly-landed jumps, but he’d received compliments on them before. He hoped that was enough.

He sent the snap of them anyway, ignoring the racing of his heart before turning off the lamp and falling into sleep.

There was no time in the morning to worry about what Yuri might think of the photo. Otabek’s last day in Almaty passed in a rush--he had an early folk dance class, and then practice with a particularly perfectionistic Aslanov, and despite his best intentions, he somehow always had a dozen last-minute errands to run before he headed to the airport.

He arrived at Almaty International Airport at four, only to discover that his flight had been delayed. He unlocked his phone to send Yuri a snap of the new departure and arrival time listed on the screen above the gate, but when he opened the app, a notification popped up: _Ice_Tiger has taken a screenshot--_ Otabek nearly dropped his phone in shock.

Oh. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d sent the picture last night, but it certainly hadn’t been _this_. He furrowed his forehead in contemplation--why would Yuri save a picture like that?

Before he could think too much about it, the attendants called the passengers to the gate. Otabek reached into his carryon and swallowed two Xanax while he waited for the attendant to verify his boarding pass. Almost immediately, the world went soft around the edges, and Otabek was unable to think much about anything at all for the remainder of the flight.

 

Yuri slumped into his uncomfortable chair at the airport gate. Otabek’s flight had been delayed by an hour in Almaty, and it seemed that turbulence was causing another delay at Pulkolva. His legs and lower back ached as he fidgeted in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, but it was _impossible_.

He sneered--this chair was probably even less comfortable than his couch, and that was _really_ saying something. Damn, he really hoped the plane would land soon; this was getting unbearable...

In an effort to distract himself from the annoying ache in his lower body, Yuri picked up his phone, opening his camera roll and pulling up the picture Otabek had sent him last night. He hadn’t _meant_ to take a screenshot of the image; his fingers had moved so quickly it had practically been a reflex. Only afterward had he remembered about Snapchat’s screenshot notifications, when it was too late to undo.

Whatever. He supposed he could just explain it as fitspiration or whatever. What athlete _didn’t_ have a collection of borderline homoerotic images of other athletes? You had to have goals, after all. Why else would Otabek have sent a photo like this, of his naked legs? The man had to _know_ how hot they were.

Christ, as awkward as it _that_ would be, it was worth it to be able to look at Otabek’s thick thighs whenever he wanted to. His quads were corded with well-defined muscles; Yuri swore that he could see the line of each muscle group demarcated underneath Otabek’s honey-golden skin. His friend’s body hair was darker, albeit much sparser than Yuri’s own, and Yuri absentmindedly wondered if it would feel smooth and silky or coarse and scratchy like his own.

His favorite part of the photo was the shadow between Otabek’s legs. There, are the very bottom of the picture, between the tops of Otabek’s thighs, Yuri was almost certain he could see the blurred curve of Otabek’s soft penis, barely visible except for where it was kissed with a sliver of light... Yuri shuddered, pressing his forearm onto his lap, where his own dick was beginning to show an interest in his contemplation of the photo.

Luckily, at that moment, the intercom announced the arrival of Aeroflot 4561. Yuri closed his camera roll, pocketing his phone, and stood up to greet his friend.

He’d meant to play it cool when Otabek walked into the terminal, but he launched himself at his friend immediately, pulling him into a big bear hug. Goddamn it, he really _was_ spending too much time with Viktor and his pork cutlet.

“Yuri? What are you doing here?” Otabek asked in surprise, having nearly dropped his bags as a result of Yuri’s sudden and affectionate assault.

Yuri stepped back, rolling his eyes. “Picking you up from the airport, stupid.” Otabek had informed him of his plans to take a cab to Yuri’s apartment from the airport, citing the late arrival of his flight as the reason he didn’t want Yuri to meet him at the airport. Yeah, right--Yuri Plisetsky was an asshole, but he wasn’t the kind of asshole who left his best friend hanging at the airport.

Otabek gave him a small smile, somehow both fond and disappointed. “You didn’t have to.” It was nearly eleven in St Petersburg, and he knew that Yuri’s morning strength training session began at 7am.

Yuri shrugged. “I rescheduled my session with my trainer for noon, and tomorrow’s tabata intervals. If I tried to do _that_ for more than an hour, my heart would explode.” He grabbed Otabek by the arm, trying not to notice how solid his bicep felt beneath his hand, as he guided his friend out to the lot where his car was parked.

 

After the harrowing forty-minute ride from the airport to Yuri’s apartment, Yuri immediately launched himself onto the ugly green couch that took up most of his tiny living room. Otabek couldn’t help but smile softly as he watched Yuri’s cats settle in his lap.

Two years ago, Yuri’s childhood cat Sasha, a temperamental long-haired Siamese, had died just six months after his grandfather. He’d purchased Dizzy and Drowsy, twin ragdoll kittens, only a few weeks later, and Otabek remembered that he had been surprised to learn Yuri had chosen a breed known primarily for being so goofy and affectionate. He’d been sure the Russian boy would choose an exotic, aloof kind of cat, maybe a Bengal or something like that. A cat like that would be a kindred spirit for the young punk, all claws and teeth and untouchable beauty.

However, Yuri had ended up with two of the fluffiest, cuddliest cats Otabek had ever seen. Though he could admit it made a certain sense--after losing what had remained of his family, perhaps Yuri had needed more affection than usual. As far as Otabek knew, Yuri had no remaining family, few friends outside of his rinkmates--and during the six years they’d been friends, he’d never had a romantic partner, or if he had, he’d never bothered to tell Otabek. And while Otabek himself wasn’t really a cat person (or much of an animal person, if he were being honest), he could understand that Yuri might have needed the comfort.

The two cats certainly seemed to soothe him--Yuri’s face was relaxed, the tension in his jaw and around his eyes dissipating as he scrubbed their fur. The young skater smiled absentmindedly as he scratched the grey one under the chin, and the cat began purring in appreciation, rolling over to expose his belly.

“Beka.” Yuri nudged him with his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Drowsy wants you to pet his belly.”

Otabek narrowed his eyes skeptically. Yuri huffed, grabbing his hand, and guiding it to the cat’s prone white stomach. “Look, he likes it.”

He had to admit the cat seemed to be purring even more loudly, if that were even possible. Without warning, the cat grabbed his wrist in his paws, and began licking Otabek, who flinched at the rough texture of the cat’s tongue.

Yuri laughed--a high-pitched sound that was almost a giggle. “He likes you, Beka!” he exclaimed, resting his head on Otabek’s shoulder.

“So he does,” Otabek murmured, letting Yuri sink bonelessly against him, his weight a comforting warmth at Otabek’s side.

They lay like this for several minutes, nestled together on the lumpy couch, the cats between them, until the orange cat pounced on Drowsy, chasing him out of their laps. Suddenly, Otabek was aware of the closeness between them, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to thigh.

Yuri’s cheeks were flushed as he straightened his back, then stretched awkwardly. “Wanna watch a movie?” he asked, voice low.

Otabek shrugged. “If you want to.” He didn’t much care for movies, especially not the gory slasher flicks Yuri preferred, but he did enjoy the quiet closeness between the two of them as they watched, the way that Yuri would grab onto his forearm, nails digging into the flesh during the scary parts, hard enough to leave half-moon indents even after he let go.

Yuri stood up, nodding. “My laptop’s in my room.” When Otabek didn’t move, Yuri reached to drag him up by the forearms. “Come on!”

Otabek had no choice but to follow him, not really.

 

It didn’t take long for Otabek to drift off to sleep fully clothed, no more than twenty minutes, despite the screaming and screeching sound effects of the cheesy zombie movie Yuri had chosen. He continued watching for a few minutes after Otabek fell asleep, but soon afterward, Yuri shut his laptop and placed it on the nightstand, then turned on his side to look at his friend, sprawled out on the other half of the bed.

Yuri should wake him, should probably make him go to sleep on the ancient, lumpy couch. But somehow he didn’t have it in him to deny himself this. It was too close to his shameful fantasies, the ones he only acknowledged late at night... A pulse in his groin reminded him how dangerous this train of thought was, but he lingered, gorging on the sight of the man lying beside him.

In the darkness, Yuri memorizes the shadows of Otabek’s face, the planes and angles of his features, tracing the contours with his eyes, unable to touch. Otabek hadn’t showered after arriving in St Petersburg, and the air was thick with his scent, dry and spicy like a desert wind.

Yuri breathed him deep, unable to stop the wave of satisfaction that swelled in his stomach when he was hit with realization that he’d be able to smell Otabek on his sheets in the morning. The pulse in his penis was now a full-on throb, and he couldn’t keep himself from grinding gently into the mattress to relieve the pressure.

Better... but not _enough._ Yuri slid one hand down between his belly and the mattress, under the waistband of his sweats and briefs, to take himself in hand. He was already wet, precum slicking the head of his dick, easing the friction as he stroked.

He concentrated on just circling the head of his cock, just rapidly pushing the foreskin down enough to uncover the leaking slit, then tugging it back up, and luxuriated in the stretch as the tight skin slipped up and over the fat head of his penis, again and again, again...

This was madness, and Yuri knew it. Otabek could wake up any moment, could be disturbed by the creaking of the bedsprings, by Yuri’s breath growing harsher, by the wet sound of his hand on his cock in the dark. He should stop. He should take his hand out of his pants, should go to sleep, should pretend none of this had ever happened...

But he was too wound up tight from the image of his friend’s thick thighs and his scent in the sheets. _It’s your fault,_ he thought, stroking faster, _your fault, your fault, you sent me that damn photo in the first place..._

Just a moment later, Yuri felt the tell-tale tension in his testicles. Turning on his side, he moved his other hand down to the head of his dick, and with just a few more short strokes of his foreskin up and down, he was coming into his waiting hand, biting down on his lower lip to stifle the moans that threatened to escape.

Careful not to spill a drop, Yuri brought his filthy hand up to his mouth, licking himself clean to destroy the evidence as best as he could. Sleep claimed him soon afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, guys! thanks for all the support. the muse and i are listening, and we decided to gift you with a new chapter early as i may not be able to post this weekend. hopefully we'll have chapter 4 ready to go by friday so we can keep to the 2x weekly updates. comments make the words come faster, so you know what to do!


	4. Four

The sun spilled through the open curtains, waking Otabek with a start.

A glance at the bedside clock confirmed that it was nearly nine in the morning, unusually late for two professional athletes to awaken. Otabek was used to waking at five, several hours before the sun rose, regardless of the time of year, in order to make it to the rink by seven thirty.

Next to him, Yuri began to stir. Rubbing his eyes, he croaked out a _good morning._

Otabek gave him a stern look. “You should have woken me up.” The _why didn’t you_ remained unspoken.

“I was tired,” Yuri said. “So were you.” He shrugged, avoiding meeting Otabek’s eyes as he spoke.

Otabek sat up in bed, fighting off a wave of nausea as he forced himself upright. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry and tasted like shit. He cursed the Xanax he’d taken at the airport, but all the same, he knew that he’d have been a panicked mess on the plane without it: Otabek hated flying. He hated the constant chatter of the other passengers, how they were all too numerous and far too close and there was never any way to escape, unless you were willing to throw yourself overboard. Such dramatic gestures were really more Yuri’s style, not his, so he preferred the Xanax and its inevitable hangover. “Right,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “My flight was late. Sorry.”

“What the fuck are you apologizing for?” Yuri asked. “It’s not like it’s your fault or anything. Unless you were late to the airport and they held the whole flight up for you to arrive.” He smirked, his eyes crinkled with sleep and glinting with humor.

“You’re terrible. I feel like hell. I’m your guest, get me some water.”

Yuri slapped him with a pillow. “You know where the kitchen is. Get it yourself.”

Otabek smiled, one of those small smiles that was really just a slight life of the right corner of his lips, holding himself perfectly still for a moment before he launched himself at Yuri, pinning him to the mattress.

Yuri’s eyes widened. “Get off me,” he growled.

“Make me,” Otabek challenged.

It was over in a moment. Yuri bucked his hips, his upper body following. Otabek didn’t have a chance to react before he was tossed against the mattress, Yuri’s weight warm and solid above him.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Yuri breathed, clearly surprised that he’d managed to pin Otabek so cleanly.

“Hmm,” Otabek agreed. “That’s never happened before. You really are getting stronger, Yuratchka.” He tried to sit up, but Yuri’s weight pinned him to the mattress easily.

Yuri sneered. “You think I’m going to let you get away so easily?” He wiggled his fingers.

Otabek stiffened. He knew what was coming--he had always been incredibly ticklish, and it hadn’t taken Yuri long at all to discover his weakness and exploit it completely. “No, please--”

But it was too late. Yuri’s fingers dug into his sides. Otabek tried to defend himself, but eventually he was reduced to nothing more than a boneless, giggling mess.

“Mercy, mercy!” he choked out through his laughter.

Finally Yuri stopped his assault, sliding off Otabek and tumbling into the mattress. “Coffee?” he asked.

“Coffee,” Otabek agreed.

Yuri busied himself with brewing the coffee while Otabek fried some eggs and sausages at the stove. It was uncanny, he thought as he cracked another egg into the pan, just how quickly they settled into the routines they had established over the years. Otabek made breakfast while dinner was Yuri’s responsibility. And Yuri didn’t trust him with the coffee, complaining that Otabek always somehow managed to burn it.

It was just as well, Otabek mused as he took a sip. Yuri made _awesome_ coffee. “The coffee is amazing,” he said.

“Of course it’s amazing. I brewed it, didn’t I?” Yuri scoffed.

“Huh,” Otabek said, plating up their breakfast and bringing it to the table where Yuri sat, petting his cats under the table with his feet. “I should kidnap you. Take you to Almaty and force you to make coffee for me every day.”

Yuri sputtered. Was he blushing? Otabek raised an eyebrow. “You can’t say shit like that, dickhead,” Yuri mumbled.

The cats mewled, begging for scraps. The fat orange one jumped onto the table and attempted to steal one of Otabek’s sausages off the plate.

“Dizzy!” Yuri scolded. “You know better!” He scooped the fat beast to the floor, but he broke off a piece of sausage and fed her under the table.

“Your cats are spoiled, Yuri.”

“Shut. Up.” Yuri’s ears were pink. Definitely blushing, then. “Anyway. Viktor said you’re due at the rink at two, and Yuuri has his twerking class at the dance academy this afternoon, so you’re on your own for the off-ice training today.” He took a bite of his eggs. “What do you say? Want to join me at the gym today?”

“Sure,” Otabek agreed.

Yuri smirked. Something about that look made Otabek feel like he should be afraid, be very afraid.

 

Otabek bent in half, breathing hard. Every muscle in his body had been liquified, he was sure of it, and they were only three quarters of the way through the routine Viktor had designed for Yuri. “You do this _every_ day?” His question was half-incredulous, half-awed.

Yuri squatted, lifting the 40 kilo kettlebell over his head into a clean effortlessly. “Yup.” He continued on for another six reps before dropping transferring the weight into his left hand, repeating the motion for another eight reps without even breathing hard.

“Viktor really _is_ a sadist,” Otabek muttered, grabbing a weight and attempting to copy Yuri’s movements. His shoulders quaked. “I don’t get it. I lift all the time. Why is this so hard?”

Yuri laughed, a deep sound that came from his belly. “This is how the Russian army trains.” He lifted a slightly heavier weight, bent his knees, and passed the kettlebell around his body in circles. “It’s the most awesome and awful combination of aerobic and anaerobic exercise there is.”

Otabek paused to admire the way that Yuri’s muscles contracted and released. He could see the strain in Yuri’s shoulders, the way that each muscle and ligament stood out in high relief, feeling even dizzier than before. “I should have Aslanov add a kettlebell session to my routine.”

Yuri just grunted, hoisting the weight above his head as he dropped into a squat. “I’m almost done. Give me a minute and I can help spot you.”

Otabek shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow. If I do any more of this right now, I’m going to be dragging ass at the rink.”

“Pussy.” Yuri exhaled in a long, shuddering breath as he continued his reps.

Otabek waited for him to finish his routine. “You wanna grab lunch before I hit the ice?”

Yuri picked up the assortment of kettlebells they’d been using from where they’d dropped them on the mat. “Sure. Let’s stretch first.” He sank into a split.

Otabek sat into a straddle stretch. “If you’re making me look this bad in the gym, I hate to see what you’ll be like once you get back into your skates.”

Anger flashed in Yuri’s eyes. “Don’t talk to me about the ice," he snapped. Though he was leaning into a second-position stretch from his split, nose pressed nearly to knee, his body vibrated with unreleased tension.

Otabek swallowed, taken aback. They continued stretching in silence.

 

“Can you repeat the layback-haircutter-Bielman spin combo again?”

Viktor watched with eyes narrowed as Otabek repeated the combination, stumbling as he transitioned between the haircutter and Bielman for the third time that afternoon. He tapped his fingers against his chin in contemplation, analyzing Otabek’s form. “You’re raising your leg too high on the haircutter, and it’s affecting your momentum as you step into the Bielmann...” he called out over the ice. “Try it again, but keep your free leg level to your head, not above.”

Otabek nodded, then performed a series of Mohawk turns to gain momentum before attempting the combo again. This time, he nearly spun out on the Bielmann, a move that he’d perfected as a junior, his right leg buckling under his weight after only two rotations. “Enough!” Viktor called, skating forward to catch him before he crashed onto the ice. “How are you feeling?”

Otabek’s chest was heaving, his legs trembling from the grueling weight training earlier in the afternoon and the two hours he’d already spent on the ice. Viktor was as demanding of the skaters he coaches as he’d been of himself as an athlete, satisfied with nothing less than perfection, and Otabek had already been pushed past the limit of his endurance on his very first day in Viktor’s rink. He accepted the electrolyte drink that Viktor pushed into his hand gratefully, chugging nearly half before wiping his mouth. “Thanks,” he gasped out between breaths.

Viktor patted his shoulder gently. “How do you feel?” he repeated, his voice soft.

“Now I understand why Yuri calls you a sadist,” Otabek mumbled under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Viktor looked positively _delighted_ as he tossed his head back in uninhibited laughter. “Really?” His blue eyes were sparkling. “You’d think that as much time as Yurio spends with Yuuri and I, he would be able to tell who the sadist is between us. He’s really quite innocent, all things considered, no?”

Otabek choked on his sports drink, and the casual patting on his shoulder intensified into a solid _whack_ as Viktor tried to prevent him from choking.

Finally, Otabek was able to bring his breathing under control. He straightened, holding himself still on the ice, and waited for Viktor’s next instruction.

“That’s enough for today. Repeat your step sequences as half speed for cooldown, paying attention to how your center of gravity shifts between steps. And don’t be afraid to put some sensuality in your movements,” Viktor ordered. “Really though, I don’t ask more from my skaters than I asked from myself as a skater.” His voice dropped as he continued speaking. “You have to get more comfortable with being uncomfortable, Otabek. You’ll never know what you’re truly capable of until you take that chance, even if the outcome isn’t what you want.”

He looked wistful as he spoke, and Otabek suspected that he wasn’t quite talking about ice skating, though he couldn’t be quite sure what else Viktor could possibly have meant.

“Go on, now.” Viktor nudged his shoulder, and Otabek skated to an empty corner of the rink, performing the choreography he was preparing for this year’s short program. The step sequence he was developing drew from his years of instruction in traditional Kazakh folk dancing, with a few nods to more contemporary urban dance.

As he skated, Viktor’s words repeated in his head: _You have to get more comfortable with being uncomfortable. You’ll never know what you’re capable of until you take that chance--you’ll never know, you’ll never know..._

For some reason, the image of Yuri sprawled next to him in the sheets flitted across his mind as he skated--the way he sprawled in the sheets, mouth half open, blonde hair a tangled crown framing his face as he slept. Yuri rarely let his guard down in quite the same way when awake; though he moved with an unconscious grace, all his gestures and expressions were controlled with the discipline of a prima ballerina. They only looked natural because he’d practiced until the motions had become instinctive. In the six years since they’d reunited in Madrid, Otabek wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen Yuri so unguarded, and though the moment had been stolen, Otabek knew for sure he’d never give it back, never.

Viktor’s shout interrupted his contemplation. “Like that, Otabek! Move like that!” he called from the sidelines where he’d been counseling one of the junior skaters.

Otabek nodded, cradling the the image of Yuri in his mind as he repeated the steps. This time, he let the steps flow through him, rather than trying to force them from his body. To his surprise, they flowed more easily than they ever had before.

 

It was past six when Otabek finally made it back to the apartment. His whole body ached--Viktor was a demanding coach, even worse than Aslanov had been these last few days.

“Remind me never to bitch about my coach. Aslanov is kitten compared to Viktor,” he said, leaning over Yuri’s back to steal a slice of green pepper.

“Don’t steal my vegetables, asshole. That’s for the stir-fry,” Yuri scolded.

Otabek shrugged, taking another slice and earning a soft slap for his trouble. “Can I help?”

“Yeah. You can fuck off,” Yuri said, but he was smiling. “There’s beer in the fridge.”

Otabek grabbed two bottles from where they were chilling on the refrigerator door. He popped them opening, handing one to Yuri before clinking the two bottles in a toast. “Nostorovia.”

“Nostorovia,” Yuri repeated, taking a deep sip. Otabek watched his Adam’s apple bob in the white expanse of his throat before taking a sip of his own.

“What are you making me?” he asked as Yuri tossed browned the meat in the skillet.

Yuri hummed. “Just a stir-fry. Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

“I like everything you cook,” Otabek said, nonchalant as he took another sip of beer.

“That’s because I’m a fucking good cook,” Yuri said, turning up the flame on the burner and adding the vegetables.

They settled onto the ancient green couch in Yuri’s living room with their plates on their laps a few minutes later. The cats tried to sit with them, but Yuri shooed them with a barked _you know better._ Spoiled as they were, the cats remained on the floor, watching the two humans hungrily.

“You can pick the movie tonight,” Yuri offered, handing Otabek the remote, who scrolled through Netflix before settling on _The Fog of War_.

“A 3-hour documentary about the Cold War?” Yuri griped. “Remind me why I trusted you with the Netflix account again.”

“Shut up and watch the movie,” Otabek said good-naturedly. “Pay attention--you might learn something. Who knows, you might even beat me in Civilization one of these days.”

Yuri glared. “I’ve won Civ before.”

Otabek snorted. “It was a _cultural_ victory. You played India and converted half my cities to Hinduism.”

“A cultural victory is still a victory,” Yuri reminded him as he shovelled an overflowing forkful of vegetables and rice into his mouth.

All Otabek had to say was _shhh_.

Two hours into the documentary, Yuri noticed Otabek slumping into the couch, his eyes blinking closed. Pausing the movie, he turned to ask “Are you tired?”

“Mm. Still a bit jet-lagged, I think. It’s past midnight in Almaty,” Otabek murmured, stroking the fat orange cat perched on his lap. Dizzy had taken an immediate liking to Otabek despite the fact that he staunchly refused to feed her off of his plate. Yuri had no idea how he’d managed to charm her without treats--Dizzy loved food more than anything.

“We can finish the movie tomorrow. It’s no big deal,” Yuri offered as he scratched Drowsy behind the ears. The grey cat was purring loudly, and the soft rumbling was making him sleepy as well.

Otabek made an affirmative sound.

Yuri shut off the TV. “I’ll get you some blankets,” he said, pushing his cat off his lap, who meowed in protest before settling down next to Otabek. He grabbed a blanket and some sheets from the linen closet, stopping by his room to grab a pillow. The two friends made up the couch in silence.

“I’ll wake you at five thirty tomorrow? We can go for a swim before your dance class with Katsuki,” Yuri asked.

“Hmm,” Otabek grunted, eyes closed. Yuri knew him well enough to know that he meant _sure._

 

Otabek grimaced as he walked into the kitchen early the next morning, well before the sun came up. “I bet Putin could use that couch of yours as an instrument of torture.”

Yuri smirked in agreement. “I know, it’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Otabek stretched and winced.

Yuri’s features softened. “You know, I don’t mind if you share the bed.” His voice squeaked a bit on the words, and he flinched. _Smooth, Plisetsky. That wasn’t weird at all._

Otabek turned toward him, his stupid face impassive as always. Yuri normally loved how stoic Otabek was--a constant, something he could count on--but in this moment he wished his friend was easier to read. “You’re sure?” Otabek asked, looking down at Yuri where he was seated at the table, eyes wide and searching.

“It’s only for a few nights. It’s fine,” he answered gruffly. _It’s more than fine_ , he thought, but he didn’t say the words aloud.

“Hm,” Otabek said, contemplating. “Even if you kick in your sleep, it can’t be worse than sleeping on your couch.”

Yuri chuckled to hide the fact that his heart was beating in his stomach. This is stupid. Friends share beds all the time. Just two nights ago, they’d fallen asleep in his bed. Sure, he’d jerked off while watching his friend in the dark, but thankfully Otabek had slept through _that_. They could sleep in the same bed without it getting weird. Couldn’t they?

Otabek swallowed. “If you’re sure.” His jaw was tense. Anyone else might not have noticed the tendon is his neck quivering, but Yuri had had a lot of practice cataloging each of his friend’s movements, dissecting them for the meaning that was so often absent from his expression.  

“Of course I’m sure,” Yuri said, waving his hand.

“Coffee ready?” he asked.

Yuri shook his head. “I just put it on. It’ll be a few more minutes.”

Otabek sat down at the table, wincing.

“It’s that bad, huh?” Yuri asked.

Otabek shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Jesus, Beka, you’re walking like a grandfather. Look, I’ve slept on that couch before. Would it kill you to admit it’s not nothing?” 

“You should donate your couch to the KGB,” Otabek groaned. “They could use it instead of waterboarding to steal secrets from their enemies.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Yuri asked.

All Otabek had to say was _ugh_.

“C’mon, if it makes you feel better, I could give you a massage.” Yuri cracked his knuckles, the resounding _pop_ a little too loud in the suddenly-quiet kitchen.

Otabek’s head snapped toward him, eyes burning. “You don’t have to.”

“Shut up. It’s my fault. I made you sleep on the couch.” Yuri slapped his thigh gently. “C’mon, get up. Stand in front of me.”

With a deep breath, Otabek did just that.

 

Yuri was going to _die._

Even now, with his long-fingered hands on the knot at the base of Otabek’s spine, he had no idea what had possessed him to offer this.

Otabek’s ass swelled just below the spot where Yuri was digging his knuckles into knotted muscle. Otabek was shirtless, as always, and the waistband of his sweats sagged dangerously low, low enough to reveal that he certainly wasn’t wearing underwear. Just a glimpse of the crack of his ass was visible above the loose pants, less than a centimeter, really, but Yuri could not force himself to look away. Those few millimeters have been the focus of every fantasy he’s had for the last two years, ever since he’d finally identified the reason he always felt both tense and relaxed around his best friend.

It would be so easy just to lean forward, to press a kiss to the base of Otabek’s spine, to let the tip of his tongue tease the crest of the dark shadow, to slide lower, and lower still; it would be so easy to push his sweats down and let his tongue lick down to Otabek’s hole like this, with no underwear in the way... Yuri’s mouth watered. This close, it was easy to imagine what Otabek would taste like there, musky and sweet with a hint of cinnamon, just the way he smells...

“Yuri?” The way Otabek said his voice was hesitant, a question almost.

Cheeks burning, Yuri realized that his hands had stilled on Otabek’s lower back. He tapped the protrusion of vertebrae at the base of Otabek’s spine softly, with the tips of his fingers. “I’m done.” Clearing his throat, he added, “I think the coffee’s ready. It’s your turn to do something nice for me, so make me breakfast.” His tone was teasing, but the truth was, there was no way that he could stand up now without revealing the filthy direction his thoughts had taken.

Otabek stared at him a moment before he chuckled and served Yuri his coffee with a splash of milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon, just the way he liked, then knocked about the cupboards, taking inventory of their options before firing up the stove and beginning to cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are so good to me & muse with all your comments. seriously, it's because of you that we have a new chapter so soon!
> 
> i won't be updating this weekend as i'm travelling for work. due to my travel schedule, i may not be able to update until late next week. but give us enough comments and kudos, and you just might get something a little sooner! xOxOxO


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how it happened but i wrote a 1300 words about the boys drinking beer. new warning: this fic depicts yuri and otabek as total bros. i'm so sorry, everyone. i have sinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second to last scene of this chapter is inspired in part by this comic: [you kind of suck at this, yura](http://i-am-weis.tumblr.com/post/154518223672/based-on-this-tweet)

This early in the morning, there was no one else in the pool. Yuri shrugged out of his gym clothes to reveal the tiny swimsuit he was wearing underneath, not quite a Speedo but almost, the new muscle in his chest and legs on display has he reached back to secure his long blonde hair into a loose braid at the nape of his neck. A slim line of hair cut from his pecs to his bellybutton, where it thickened and darkened tantalizingly before trailing beneath the waistband of his tiny tiger-print shorts. It was incomprehensible to Otabek that anyone could see Yuri like this and think of him as pretty or feminine, words that the press and his fans seemed to use to describe him more often than not.

Still. It was one thing to know Yuri had grown stronger in theory, and quite another thing altogether to see it laid for him. Despite the long hair and painted toenails and affinity for that particular shade of neon pink, here, like this, it was evident that Yuri was masculine in a way that belied his status as top athlete; his body was all hard lines and sharp angles, each muscle coiled with a dormant strength...

Yuri shifted under his gaze, walking toward the pool to test the water temperature with his toes, and Otabek immediately busied himself untying the waistband of the joggers he wore, which had somehow managed to knot itself together. His fingers were thick and clumsy, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. He’d been on edge since Yuri’s impromptu offer of a massage in the kitchen, when he’d felt Yuri’s eyes boring into the small of his back as he had lavished more attention on Otabek’s upper glutes than anything else.

His ass hadn’t hurt, at least not as much as his mid-back, anyway, but he had let Yuri knead the firm flesh with his knuckles, had held himself taut, waiting for Yuri’s soft breath on the small of his back to condense into a warm wet kiss. It never came.

Otabek swore, finally managing to untangle the drawstring of his joggers. He stepped out of his clothing, momentarily embarrassed to be wearing nothing more than one of Yuri’s swimsuits. Though the trunks were supposed to be baggy, they clung tightly to Otabek’s thicker frame, pulling especially taut around his hips and ass. They would hide nothing if he allowed himself to keep thinking about this shit...

“You swimming or not?” Yuri taunted from the pool. He was treading water in the deep end, but the gentle tone of his voice didn’t match the teasing words. Otabek only nodded and made his way over to the pool, diving in without ceremony. The attendants had not yet set up the buoyed ropes for lanes, and the two of them swam in lazy laps to warm up for several minutes before Yuri kicked up the pace, tearing through the heavy water with speed. Otabek kicked harder, pushing himself to catch up with his friend.

“You’re strong as shit, Yuri,” Otabek said, finally catching up with him in the deep end after several laps. Otabek may have been stronger, able to propel himself through the water more quickly, but his body in the water was a wild, thrashing thing. He lacked Yuri’s natural grace and rhythm: Yuri moved through the water like a siren, cutting through the water with barely a splash. His hair was beginning to escape the sloppy braid he’d secured at the nape of his neck, and the wet strands clung to his neck like strands of seaweed--Otabek could easily imagine him luring sailors to their death with a song like this.

“You’re not bad yourself,” Yuri murmured, casting an appreciative glance over Otabek’s shoulders and chest before he blinked twice rapidly, as if trying to clear his mind of something. “Anyway. How do you feel about a 800 meter race?”

“Butterfly?” Otabek suggested, picking one of the most difficult strokes.

“Butterfly,” Yuri agreed, crouching to press his feet against the pool wall. “On your mark, get set, go!”

They swam laps for the next hour or so, holding a few impromptu races to break up the monotony. Otabek won slightly more than half the time, and when Yuri suggested a particularly difficult version of Marco Polo modified for two people, he immediately agreed to play. They spent their cool-down horsing around and splashing each other in the pool until an influx of elderly swimmers tittered at them in disapproval.

“I’m glad you came to visit me,” Yuri said as they showered off the chlorine in the locker room. “St Petersburg’s more fun when you’re around.” He passed Otabek his bar of soap, casually stepping back into the spray of the showerhead to lather up his hair.

“C’mon, we haven’t done anything but train since I got here.” Otabek tapped him on the shoulder, handing back the soap.

“Yeah, I’d be doing the same shit anyway, but this way I get to do it with someone, instead of against them.” Yuri tipped his head back to rinse his hair.

“Ah, so when we’re at the Grand Prix, that’s not a competition?” Otabek asked.

Yuri made a sour face. “Of course it is. It’s the only real competition, isn’t it?” The steam blurred his green eyes. “Someone else might get the other medal, but the real podium is between you and me.” He grabbed Otabek’s bicep, turning his friend to face him. “It’s the _only_ podium that matters.”

The words echoed off the tiled walls, the only thing between them except for the steam, which curled softly around Yuri’s yellow hair and long long legs, sensuous. Otabek wanted nothing more than to curl himself there too--

He closed his eyes. “You’re not wrong.” Since Barcelona, they had been on the podium together more often than not, excepting last year and Yuri’s growth spurt. The hand on his arm tightened for a moment as Yuri’s green eyes searched his brown ones; Otabek found he was powerless to look away while Yuri gazed at him, mouth slack and open.

“I’m exactly right.” Yuri’s words were definite, leaving no room for argument. He pressed his lips together and loosened his fingers from Otabek’s arm, turning back into the steam once again, and there was nothing more to say after that.

 

Otabek stripped out of the sweaty gym clothes before collapsing onto Yuri’s bed. Every single one of his muscles felt like they were made of jelly. He’d never trained this hard before in his life, and his body was punishing him for the neglect.

He reached his hands over his head, sinking into the mattress, legs aching from Katsuki’s choreography. Yuuri had been inspired by the syncopated arm movements of traditional Kazakh dance that Otabek had wanted to incorporate into his free skate, and had insisted on teaching him some basic hip-hop footwork to go along with it. Otabek hadn’t even been able to attempt the moves on the ice, skidding and slipping as soon as he attempted a step, much to Viktor’s delighted laughter.

Tomorrow was his rest day, and every muscle in his body was crying out in relief. No wonder Yuri was so hard to beat, with coaches like Yuuri and Viktor.

He took a deep breath, lingering in the citrus scent everywhere in the sheets. _Yuri_. The truth was, Otabek had barely been able to think about anything else since he’d arrived in St Petersburg--maybe even a few days before, when he’d bought the plane tickets. Burying his face in a pillow, Otabek groaned. Yuri had offered to let him sleep in the bed, and he hadn’t been a good enough man to refuse. That awful couch might even be less painful than this sweet torture...

Shit. His dick was half-hard already, heavy between his legs, the head dragging against the duvet cover, just from thinking about tonight, about Yuri next to him, all the raw want that was sure to course through his veins as he slept... Otabek knew it was a lost cause. There was no way he would survive a night in this bed if he didn’t come right now. But he was not going to jerk off on Yuri’s bed. He was still going to jerk off to the thought of his best friend, but at least he was respectful enough to do it in the bathroom and not the bed. Otabek decided another shower wouldn’t be remiss, especially after Katsuki’s unexpectedly energetic dance class, so he grabbed a couple of towels from Yuri’s hallway closet before locking the bathroom door.

He turned the hot water up high, working himself up as he waited for the water to heat up. He didn’t get into the shower until the bathroom was thick with steam, until he was reminded of the showers at the pool, the way Yuri had held onto him with his voice breaking as he spoke.

_It’s the only podium, Yuri repeats, his hands on Otabek’s arms, bracketing him between his long tall body and the wall. He steps closer, closer again, until their hips are pressed tight, until the murmured words brush Otabek’s lips like a kiss. And Otabek sucks the syllables from his lips until Yuri stops trying to speak and concentrates on sucking Otabek’s tongue while his hands creep lower, between Otabek’s legs..._

They could touch each other like this, Otabek thought, twisting his hand over the head of his dick. How would Yuri feel in his hand? Would his dick twitch and leak like Otabek’s, or would he need to spit into his hand to smooth the friction? Would he like being touched like this, or would be prefer to be teased, to have his pleasure drawn from him in soft slow strokes? Otabek slowed his hand, teasing himself to the thought of Yuri below him, face and chest red with a blush Otabek had kissed onto him, begging Otabek for more, to take him apart. But no matter how much he begged, Otabek would take his time, watch him come unwound while he choked on his own want.

No matter how long he tried to last, it wasn’t long enough. Could never be enough, not enough to make up for the years of yearning... Otabek had always been had an aesthetic appreciation of Yuri, perhaps even as far back as the first time he’d seen him at the barre during Yakov’s training camp; they were athletes, and appreciating someone’s athletic prowess was completely platonic. But three years ago, after Yuri’s first growth spurt, when he’d begun to change from a precocious child to beautiful man, Otabek had started catching himself looking at Yuri with something more than simple appreciation. And now here he was, jerking off in the shower to the memory of his friend naked and wet in the shower, the way his pubic hair curled between his hipbones down toward his soft pink cock.

Sometimes he wondered if Yuri knew he did this while thinking of him, imagined the warm weight of his cock in his hand wasn’t his own as he stroked himself, quick and dirty to orgasm.... The image was too much. Otabek braced himself against the shower wall with his free hand, shooting his cum down the drain as he bit his tongue on the name that threatened to escape with his semen.

 

When Yuri finally got home from his bike ride, Otabek had showered, changed, and cleaned up the evidence. He was sitting on the single armchair in Yuri’s living room, which was much more comfortable than the cursed couch, reading a biography on Vladimir Putin and most of the way through his first beer of the night.

He could hear Yuri clomping into the apartment, the cleats of his bike shoes scuffing on the cheap linoleum floors.

“What the hell? You’re drinking and _reading_?” Yuri complained, parking his bike against the couch and helping himself to a sip of Otabek’s beer. “You are seriously an old man. Tell me you have more beer.”

“I’m twenty-four, I’m in the prime of my life.” Otabek grabbed the beer bottle from Yuri’s hand and finished the last sips in a single gulp. “There’s more in the fridge. Grab me one while you’re at it?”

Yuri soon returned with the beer. They toasted, and Yuri grabbed the book out of his lap. “What is this? Is that Putin on the cover?”

“Yeah,” Otabek said, snatching back the book but offering nothing else because he knew Yuri would work himself up into an adorable huff when he did things like that.

“Why are you reading about Vladimir Putin?” Yuri puffed his chest out, getting all flustered already.

“Well, Vladimir rides horses shirtless. And I heard he wrestles bears. Do you know how to wrestle bears, Yura?” Otabek’s eyes shone with silent laughter.

“You’re twenty-four and you have a crush on Vladimir Putin. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Raising an eyebrow, Yuri defiantly took a deep sip of his beer.

“Yuri. You’re twenty-one.” He sent Yuri a disappointed grin that was only slightly goofy. “You’ve been living in Russia your whole life. You have to know Putin is a fascinating man.”

“A lot of people say he’d done a lot of good for Russia. But I think he’s kind of a dick.” Yuri looked down at his feet, crossing his eyes at his bare toes. At least he’d taken off the uncomfortable cycling shoes. though he was still clad in white and red Spandex with sweat-slick hair. “You know I think Victor and piggy are terrible. But what’s also terrible is that he and Yuuri have to watch themselves in St Petersburg in way they wouldn’t have to in Japan.” He tucked his ankles underneath his thighs, sitting up on his knees on the small area rug to stretch his hamstrings. “It didn't used to be like that when I was a kid. We didn’t really talk about Viktor but he had a few boyfriends, and while they weren't public he never really tried to hide then either. But now he and Yuri have to watch themselves in public, which only makes them even more clingy in private.”

Yuri made a face, then took a contemplative sip of his beer. “Anyway,” he teased, “the whole world deserves to know how gross those two are with each other. I shouldn't have to bear that burden alone.” His words were teasing, but their intonation was wistful, hinting at a truer meaning.

“You’re doing it again.” Otabek looked him in the eyes, which were green and burning.

Yuri ran his hands through his sweaty hair. “What?”

“That thing where you make fun of something that bothers you.”

When Yuri didn’t answer, Otabek tried to apologize. “Look, I’m sorry if--”

“No, you’re right.” The heat in Yuri’s eyes flared. “I hate that they have to hide, OK? It’s not fair. They’re... good, you know, in a way a lot of couples _aren’t_. And it’s not something they can just... be, here.”

“Yeah,” Otabek breathed in agreement. For a moment, Yuri’s gaze met his in all its burning intensity. The air around them crackled, heavy with potential energy. “A lot of things would be easier...” He smoothed the pages of the book in his lap, grateful to have something to do with his hands. “You know, in Almaty things aren’t much different.” Otabek swallowed a mouthful of his own spit as he spoke. He’d never said the words aloud to Yuri, but his friend knew him well enough that he’d never had to before. “The first time I brought home a boyfriend, my mother ignored him. And then she ignored me for a week after that.” He thumbed the pages of the book in his lap as he spoke. “She eventually started talking to me again, but she’s never met another one of my partners. I couldn’t do that, make someone I loved feel like they were nothing, not again.”

“Huh.” Yuri swished the last of his beer around his mouth before he swallowed. “I’ve never met your mom.”

“Yeah.” Otabek clenched his fist around the book in his hand. The thick spine was unyielding, and he was reassured by that for some reason. “... I don’t want her to make you feel bad, you know? She’s not very... understanding. About some things.” He fiddled with the abused biography of Vladimir Putin, the pages already crinkled and dog-eared from his constant fidgeting.  

Yuri had been playing with the label of his beer bottle, peeling it off and smoothing it back on as he listened. “Huh,” he said, sounding distracted and standing. “I should probably shower and change before cooking.”

“You don’t have to.” Otabek let his gaze linger appreciatively on Yuri’s Spandex-clad form, the clingy material revealing more than it covered. Yuri glared and swatted him, and Otabek put his elbows in front of his face in mock defense.

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t mean that and you’ve just been corrupted by Yuuri Katsuki after a single dance class,” Yuri said, stripping off his sweaty jersey as he padded into the bathroom. He was wearing a ridiculous cycling garment, a pair of shorts with a padded crotch and straps that went over his shoulders, skintight.

Otabek watched him until the bathroom door locked with a little _click_ . He tried to turn his attention back to his book, but the words blurred and began running into each other. Shifting in his chair, his foot knocked into something that fell to the floor with a _clank_ \--he’d kicked over Yuri’s empty beer bottle, which his friend had left on the floor.

He gathered up the empties, depositing them in the sink for recycling. Even from the kitchen, he could hear when Yuri turned the shower on, which reminded him of what he’d done in the shower earlier that afternoon. A jolt of electricity ran down his spine, and he blushed, then busied himself with washing the morning’s dishes. Yuri was a good cook, but a messy one, and Otabek knew the sink would be full again by the time dinner was ready. He was thankful for the distraction.

 

After dinner, they finished the Cold War documentary sprawled out on Yuri’s comfortable bed, during which Yuri teased Otabek relentlessly about his crush on Vladimir Putin. In response, Otabek cracked open two more bottles of beer with a wicked half-smirk. “Civ?”

“Civ,” Yuri grinned, clinking their bottles together in a cheer. “You’re drunk as fuck, maybe I have a chance this time.” He took a deep drink, draining nearly half of his third beer in one gulp.

“Hm,” Otabek said. He booted up his laptop, resting it on his stomach as he sprawled against the pillows. “You’d think...”

As it turned out, Otabek was even more ruthless at Civ when he was drinking.

“I don’t get it. You had like four beers--you never drink like that. How are you this good?” Yuri might actually have been pouting when he said it, but he’d just lost another two port cities to Otabek’s Mongolian army, so he’d felt it had been justified.

“I’m _not_. You’re actually kind of terrible at this, Yuri.” Otabek leaned over his shoulder to look at Yuri’s screen, then waggled his fingers over the keyboard. “Can I?”

He skipped through Yuri’s remaining cities, checking their production and their troops. “You should make more roads. You’ll be able to move troops faster, and you get more gold per turn from each square with roads.” He queued up a few Builders in the city’s production. “And you’ve got to stop upgrading all your pikemen to swordsmen as soon as you enter the Iron Age. They’re only good for close combat, useless against my horse archers.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Yuri grumbled, but he let Otabek set production for some archers and pikemen to defend his remaining Russian cities against Otabek’s Mongolian horse archers. Considering the fact that he’d only won two games since Otabek had bought him Civ for his birthday last year, he figured it couldn’t hurt.

“Because Yuri, we never get to play a game into the modern age. I always cripple you in the early game, and you never quite recover enough to be a threat later on.” He turned to Yuri, nudging him gently in the shoulder. “Beside, you said it yourself earlier. It’s more fun when you have an equal to compete with.”

Yuri blinked and flushed. “Huh. Yeah, I guess I did.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he remembered the way that Otabek’s skin had looked through the steam as they’d stood under the shower. He’d very nearly lost control of himself then--had Otabek noticed the stumbling half-step sideways he'd taken to avoid crashing their crotches into one another in the shower...?

He sat back on his haunches, watching Otabek zoom in on Minsk. “What are you doing there?”

“Building you a university district. The Russians don’t have an explicit science advantage, but you can probably use some of the civics from the middle ages to get a technology boost later on...” Otabek frowned, tapping at the keyboard impatiently as he checked the stats of the Russian cities. “Yuri, seriously, you kind of suck at this game.”

Yuri made a disapproving noise in his throat, but he settled his head in Otabek’s lap once more, lying on his side as he watched his friend explain a new strategy for Yuri’s Russian empire. Every so often, Otabek would interrupt his lecturing to tuck a stray hair behind Yuri’s ears, or smooth his hair out of his eyes. “That actually makes a lot of sense,” Yuri murmured, nuzzling his forehead softly against Otabek’s knee as his friend continued the gentle petting.

“You sure you’re going to remember this for next time? You look awfully tired.” Otabek asked with playful skepticism, pushing Yuri’s bangs off of his face yet again. His breath was yeasty and his words a little slurred, and Yuri thought he looked flustered and cute like this, drunk on world domination and a few beers.

“Build cathedrals and make Inquisitors?” Yuri wasn’t drunk, not really; he wouldn’t even be hungover tomorrow. Otabek had said to do that, and a lot of other stuff too, but it was kind of hard to pay attention to military and economic strategies and boring history stuff when your best friend was practically giving you a scalp massage.

“Huh. Very good.” Otabek’s fingers scritched behind Yuri’s left ear, who sighed softly at the affectionate gesture. “C’mon, lazy, let’s get ready for bed. You’re going to regret it if you use my leg for a pillow. I might knee you in the neck in your sleep.” He wiggled his leg menacingly against Yuri’s collarbone, and Yuri reluctantly crawled out of Otabek’s lap and off of the bed, stretching until his shoulders popped.

“Who’s the lazy one now?” he asked, tossing a pillow onto Otabek’s lap where he was still sprawled out on the bed. Otabek laughed, tripping over himself as he got to his feet.

They shared the sink for their evening ablutions. For some reason, when Otabek grinned at him in the mirror around a mouthful of toothpaste, Yuri blushed and saw himself go red in the mirror, struck dumb by the easy intimacy reflected back at him.

“What’s wrong, Yuri? You’re all red.” Otabek cocked an eyebrow on his otherwise impassive face, a gesture so cheesy he was the only one who could get away with it.

“Shut up,” Yuri grumbled in answer. “I have to use the bathroom, so finish doing whatever you’re doing and get the fuck out of here, okay?”

 

Otabek had been tossing and turning for twenty minutes now. The sheets were a tangled mess, all twisted around Yuri’s ankles and pulling tighter every time Otabek stirred. “Yura. I can’t sleep.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re drunk. Go the fuck to sleep, it should be easy.” Yuri growled, burrowing deeper into the covers. He might have stolen some of the duvet, but he wasn’t used to sharing. Otabek could deal with it.

“My clothes are itchy.” Otabek squirmed again. The cheap cotton shirt and shorts he wore made his skin crawl, and he couldn’t get comfortable. The sheets, on the other hand, were smooth and cool, and best of all, they smelled like citrus and clove and Yuri. He couldn’t think of a single reason not to wrap himself in it, close against his skin.

“You’re not serious.” The words were murky with alcohol and something else. In the dark, Otabek couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew the moment Yuri’s pupils dilated by the way the darkness deepened beneath his brow.

Otabek stumbled off the bed, managing to catch himself though he struggled with his shirt, nearly getting lost in his sleeves. When he finally managed to remove the offending garment he balled it up and tossed it on the mattress. “Goddamn it, I’m not drunk enough for this,” Yuri grumbled. “You need to visit Russia more often so you can learn how to drink.” He did, however, toss Otabek’s shirt from the bed to the floor.

Yet he didn’t look away as he did so. The darkness did not reveal the cut of Otabek’s chest; it kissed the curve of his shoulders and the peaks of his nipples. A thin sliver of moonlight traced the curve of his thighs as Otabek stepped out of the thin grey shorts, and he paused a moment before climbing back into the bed, his hands behind his back as if he knew the obscene way the moonlight caressed his skin.

“You are a nudist. I knew it,” Yuri grumbled, but his eyes were dark as he leaned back against the pillows. When Otabek pulled back the sheet, a gust of cold air blew beneath the blanket and he curled into himself to conserve heat.

“Mmm,” Otabek answered, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. He pulled back the sheet, sprawling gracelessly onto his side of the bed. He was right--the bed was much more comfortable without scratchy pajamas. Spartan as Yuri’s apartment was, he had a very nice mattress and designer sheets with an exorbitant thread count though whenever Otabek tried to tease him about it, he immediately got defensive, saying a good night’s sleep was part of an athlete’s job; it was practically a business expense.

Otabek didn’t mind. This was much more comfortable than that evil couch and he was planning to exploit it for everything it was worth.

“You’re lucky you have tomorrow off. Viktor would kill me if you showed up hungover for practice tomorrow.” Yuri’s voice was strained with all the tension in his body as he held himself still.

Otabek turned on his side, his face uncomfortably close and dark with shadow. “I’m going to be fine. You’ll make me lots of coffee in the morning.”

“I’m going to drink the coffee all by myself,” Yuri threatened, but they both knew he didn’t mean it.

“It’s cold,” Otabek complained in response, clumsily sliding toward the center of the bed to grip the corner of Yuri’s duvet and yanking. “You’re hogging all the blankets.”

“It’s your own damn fault. You could wear pajamas like a normal person, you know,” Yuri griped, but he let Otabek fold himself under the blanket. He could feel the warmth radiating from Otabek’s skin, could smell the spice of his sweat crowding in close, and Yuri took a stuttering breath in through his mouth, trying to see if he could taste Otabek’s skin if he breathed deeply enough. He’d always been a little more selfish than maybe he should.

“Mmm. Better like this. Not itchy anymore.” Otabek nestled a little closer to Yuri, wrapping the duvet tight around their shoulders, the bare skin of their arms brushing together beneath the blankets.

“Nudist,” Yuri accused, but the way he said it was full of affection so Otabek just tucked his head beneath Yuri’s armpit and soon enough, his breath deepened and evened out, his body becoming a dead weight against Yuri’s chest.

Yuri spent a long time after that willing his eyes to close. When he finally slept, all his dreams tasted of the desert, spiked with cinnamon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ack, this chapter is kind of late. i'll be travelling a lot over the next few weeks, but thanks so much for all the comments and kudos. every time the muse gets off, you get a new chapter!


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 23,000 words later, they finally touch boners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mad props to [muspellssynir@tumblr](http://muspellssynir.tumblr.com) for beta and brainstorming. i thought this chapter would be easier, considering I'd already written a good chunk of it, but the first draft was all out of order; making it fit together required considerable rewriting. thanks musspell! this chapter would have been worse without you.
> 
> the characters have decided to go full bro on me. yuri and otabek are the annoying hipster boyfriends of ice skating. shout out to @kinoglowworm for indulging my ridiculous headcanons and for tag of the day, "bromoeroticism". this chapter is dedicated to you!
> 
> apologies to abrandnewheart (underneaththesky). i forgot to shout out to ["hashtags"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9251090). the "alexei" mentioned in this chapter is based on their original character.

Yuri was dead asleep when he was jostled awake by a sudden _oof_ and a surprised kick. When he managed to crack his eyes open, Dizzy was sitting on Otabek’s chest, all sixteen pounds of fat ragdoll cat, preening and mewling in a soft demand to be pet by the startled man.

“She likes you more than me,” Yuri complained, scruffing her fur. Their hands tangled together as they pet the purring cat, who had now curled up into a tight ball on Otabek’s chest; in order to reach the cat’s soft belly, Yuri’s chest and stomach pressed against Otabek’s left arm, Yuri’s chin resting on his shoulder. Otabek was still quite near naked, but neither he nor the cat seemed to mind. “It’s like she has a crush on you or something.”

“Ah. I hate to let her down... She’s a pretty kitty, just not my type.” Otabek’s warm fingers brushed against Yuri’s wrist, thumb caressing the bumpy bone at the base. “I’d prefer a big cat, if I were to have one of my own.” He tightened his fingers around Yuri’s wrist in a gentle squeeze. “A tiger, perhaps...”

“Get off me, cretin,” Yuri said, but he didn’t try to escape Otabek’s fingers, warm and heavy on his wrist, before he disentangled himself to get  up, cursing Viktor and his own competitive nature for his dedication to his coach’s sadistic endurance training program.

“It’s too early for yoga.”

“Lazy. Stretch with me.” Yuri grabbed at the blanket and tugged. “You’re always so stiff, you need it.”

“I need my rest. I never peak ‘til the end.” Otabek grinned at the terrible pun and pulled back, determined to bury himself in the blankets and sleep for the next few hours.

Yuri huffed, yanking at the duvet with a look of mock innocence on his face.. Eventually Otabek gave in, and unstuck himself from the bed, noticing his near-nakedness for the first time that morning. “Shit, where did my pajamas go?” He was definitely going to need coffee, and soon.

Yuri shrugged and stepped into his yoga pants, some ridiculously stretchy garment that did nothing to preserve his modesty. “Probably on the floor somewhere.”

“Fuck. Did I really....?” Yuri gave him a look that was equal parts amused and appraising, which seemed to linger on his bare lower torso. Otabek flushed. “Sorry, dude. I was drunk.” A quick search turned up the sweats he had worn to bed, tossed in a pile next to the desk.

“Drunk has nothing to do with it. You’re a nudist.” Yuri raised an accusatory eyebrow at him.

Well, at least he’d managed to keep his underwear on last night. Which was a small miracle, considering the fact that Otabek slept completely naked back home in Almaty more often than not. But Yuri didn’t have to know that.

Otabek was thankful for his natural resting poker face as he bent down to pull on the shorts and shirt he’d discarded in his drunkenness. He then followed Yuri to the living room, where he’d already set up two yoga mats head-to-foot and was warming up with a quick sun salutation series.

With only the absolute minimum of complaint, Otabek stretched out on the mat, attempting to mimic Yuri’s fluid movements. However, he was clumsy, stumbling, and Yuri had to help steady him through the moves. Eventually, though, Otabek found his balance, and began to concentrate on his breathing and the relief in his sore muscles.

For the first part of their workout, they stretched solo, but eventually Yuri sat back into lotus position and reached for Otabek, guiding him through a series of partner poses that steadily grew more strenuous.

With a murmured _on your stomach_ , Yuri guided Otabek onto his belly, then asked, “I’m going to sit on you now, OK?”

Otabek braced himself and nodded as Yuri crouched on Otabek’s hamstrings, pressing his knees into the muscle just below the curve of Otabek’s ass. He reached for Otabek’s arms, pulling his friend backward by his forearms. Though he tried to convince himself otherwise, he could not help sneaking a peek at Otabek’s ass where the fabric of his sweats pulled taut around the juicy cheeks.

Just like it had yesterday in the kitchen, the sight of his friend’s ass struck him stupid; Yuri’s pupils dilated and his vision shrank down to where his hips hovered inches above the welcoming flesh... all he would have to do was lean forward a little bit more...

But Otabek shifted. He had turned his face to the side, over his shoulder, watching Yuri, whose gaze was fixated on the small of his back just as it had been during the impromptu massage in the kitchen, hot and heavy as a hand.

“You saved that photo of me,” Otabek said. The words were muffled by the floor.

Yuri blinked, startled, and he wobbled for a moment before his regaining balance on Otabek’s legs. “What photo?”

“From Snapchat.”

Yuri tightened his grip on Otabek’s forearms, forcing his chest out. “So?”

Otabek shifted, feeling his friend’s weight deepen the stretch in his spine. “Why?”

A little bit too suddenly, Yuri released him, and he had to catch himself on his forearms to avoid a face-plant. “Come on. You’re jacked! Why would you send me a picture like that if you didn’t want me to have it?” Yuri’s words dropped with scorn. He patted Otabek’s hip, who remained on his belly as he bent his knees, obediently putting his feet up. “It’s like, fitspiration or whatever. Everybody does it.” Yuri scoffed, then sat back on his legs, pulling Otabek back by the wrists this time, until his fingers were wrapped gently around his own ankles, Yuri seated on the soles of his feet. This position was an even deeper stretch, and Otabek groaned as he felt the tension releasing from his upper body and thighs. Yoga was boring, but it always made him feel better. At least partner yoga was marginally less dull; if Otabek had a partner as bendy as Yuri, he would definitely do this more often.

This time, Yuri released him gently, and Otabek sank down to the floor a bit more gracefully than before. In almost perfect unison, they sat up, back-to-back in lotus pose. Then Otabek leaned back and Yuri folded in half beneath him, flexible enough to rest his forehead on the ground

“Fitspiration? You’re thirsty.” He stretched his arms over his head, draping his spine against Yuri’s. “When was the last time you got laid anyway?” Otabek teased.

Yuri straightened up, huffing in annoyance as he pushed Otabek upright to release the stretch. “Let me put it into perspective for you. The last person I kissed... was my cat.” Otabek chuckled, and they laced their fingers tight, twisting and breathing together into the next stretch.

Though his last quip had been a joke, it twisted Yuri’s guts as much as the yoga twisted his spine.  In all honesty, the last relationship he’d had, the only real relationship, had ended a year and a half ago when his partner had refused to go public after a year of dating. He and Otabek had begun their nightly Skype ritual in earnest around that time, and since then, though Yuri had reluctantly allowed Mila to mastermind a few dates for him, he’d failed to feel a spark on any of those outings, at least not one that compared to this slowly simmering thing he’d developed for his best friend. After a while, it seemed worthless to even try.

“You can mock my love life,” Otabek offered as though sensing Yuri’s wistfulness; perhaps his friend figured it was safe enough considering that he’d been single even longer than Yuri, ever since he’d broken up with that Russian translator with the drinking problem nearly two years ago.

“What love life?” Yuri scowled. He scooted backward and turned to face Otabek, who did the same before pressing their feet together. Together, they raised their legs into a v-stretch, Otabek letting his weight sink against Yuri, whose hips bent nearly straight.

“Exactly.” Yuri had been visiting Almaty  when that relationship had been limping towards its inevitable end. He’d listened to Otabek complain the entire visit.

“Weren’t you seeing someone else for a while, though? The grad student or whatever?” Yuri bent his knees, and Otabek was silent for a moment, concentrating on balancing as they brought their legs down into a saddle stretch without breaking the tether between their toes.

“Pffft.” That particular flirtation had been over almost before it started.

“What happened with that?”

Otabek shrugged. “The same thing that happens every time. Like, sure, I’ll go to your seminar with you. Let me just reschedule the Four Continents, for, I don’t know, seven o’clock next Wednesday.” His voice dripped with sarcasm as they linked fingers and leaned away from each other.

Yuri, showing off, rested his cheek against his shin as he deepened the pose. “Didn’t he like, get all pissed when you had to practice on the weekends, too?”

“Don’t remind me,” Otabek let out an exasperated breath. “I didn’t ask him to skip his exams to watch me compete. I don’t know why he kept asking me to not do my job, _my job that I am paid to do_ , in order to spend more time with him.”

Yuri straightened, and they repeated the series of stretches on his opposite side. “Huh.... I dunno, dude. Why is it that all the guys you date have a problem with your skating?”

Otabek rolled his eyes. “It’s my schedule, mostly. How I’m always asleep or awake too early and travel too much. You know, the usual.”

“Well, maybe you just need to date an athlete.” Yuri’d said it so matter-of-fact, like it should have been obvious.

“What?” Otabek nearly let go of Yuri’s leg when he said that. Luckily, he managed to catch himself before they tumbled to the ground in a heap of sweat and limbs, and they quickly finished the routine.

“Look, I’m just saying... Like, it’s hard for other people to understand what it takes to get on the podium. We make it look easy, but it’s fucking hard.” Yuri folded from the waist, relaxing into child’s pose then tugging Otabek’s shoulders, forcing him to drape backward. He continued talking as Otabek’s weight pressed him down into the stretch, until his nose was resting on his shins. “Anyway. Unless your partner is an athlete too, he’s always gonna feel like he’s in second place. The thing is, he won’t be wrong. Another skater--or hell, maybe any athlete--would be OK with the time you have to put into it.”

Otabek hummed he listened. He knew it was best to say as little as possible when Yuri was in a mood like this. You just had to listen and let him talk his way either into something or out of it.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the whole reason that I stayed with Alexei for so long, at least.” Alexei. The Russian speed skater with an undercut and a motorcycle who Yuri had dated for over a year, who Otabek had hated both immediately and with irrational intensity. The dislike had been mutual.

“I don’t know, Yura.” Otabek crossed his arms and dropped his chin, glum. “So many athletes are just like JJ--when was the last time he read a book? I doubt that guy has even read his own autobiography.”

Yuri smiled into the shin on which he’d been resting his face. Talking shit about JJ was one of his favorite past times, and he had no intention of holding back. Humming a melody, he’ asked Otabek, “Did you hear his new song...? It’s so camp it could pitch its own tent.” Reaching for his phone, he queued up JJ’s latest release.

Otabek laid back and went cross-eyed. “You’ve betrayed me,” he moaned over the opening bars.

“What? It’s a good song. Catchy.” Yuri was smirking. Otabek had the feeling Yuri had played the song on purpose, to punish him for being distracted, for not paying enough attention to him as they stretched. Yuri never quite managed to ask, but he had mastered the art of annoying people into paying attention to him when he wanted it, rather like a misbehaving cat. So Otabek sat back into lotus and grabbed for him, initiating another repetition of their routine.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “You’re doing it wrong.” He turned over onto his side, repositioning Otabek’s shin, letting the extra stretch against his muscles burn for just a moment before leaning away, guiding his friend through the series of stretches once more, then again after that.

Finally exhausted, he lay on the ground in corpse pose, so perfectly still that Otabek jumped when he spoke. “We’re going to Viktor’s for dinner. I’m not cooking on my rest day.”

“Most people go to restaurants when that happens.”

Yuri pulled the drawstring of his hoodie closed and lay back into the stretch, voice muffled into the fabric as he spoke. “Most people do not live within walking distance of Katsuki. He’s practically a five-star chef. And we can drink for free there.” Otabek had to mumble an agreement. He’d eaten Katsuki’s cooking on three continents and each time it had been fantastic. Even Viktor had begun to put on weight in recent years, helpless to resist his husband’s cooking, though Otabek suspected that alcohol was to blame for at least half of that. Retirement had certainly agreed with Viktor, especially the part about being able to drink all year round....

Oh, yeah. Drinking.... Otabek was glad that he didn’t blush nearly  as easily as Yuri did. Otherwise, he’d give away his embarrassment at having remembered the way he’d woken up this morning, snuggled up to Yuri and wearing nothing more than his briefs.

In order to distract himself from thinking about that, Otabek pinched Yuri teasingly. “Admit it, you just think it’s cute when Katsuki cooks for you.” If nothing else, reminding Yuri of his teenage crush on Katsuki was useful for riling him up. “Who knows, maybe he’ll make Korean food.”

It was a playful jab, but Yuri pulled an involuntary face at any mention of Korea. No matter what, it reminded him of the way his teenage crush on Katsuki had been at peak adolescent intensity during the last Olympics. At age 17, he’d been such an embarrassment, prone to insulting and coddling a confused Yuuri in equal turns; after Pyeongchang, Yuri had meant to congratulate Katsuki on his gold medal but had ended up simultaneously insulting the other skater and accidentally confessing his years-long crush, complete with plenty of yelling and violent hand gestures.

“You are not allowed to mention Korea ever again in my presence,” Yuri huffed, rolling over onto his side. Katsuki had forgiven him immediately. Viktor had teased him quite gently, all things considered--he’d mentioned it a few times in the weeks that followed, but gave it up soon afterward, sensing that Yuri needed space to heal. Otabek, for some reason, had decided to stay his friend, even after he’d confided the mortifying details of the confrontation to him over two pitchers of beer. “I was a kid! I was innocent. Leave me alone.”

“Mm.” Otabek got to his feet, shaking out his joints, which creaked in response. “Are you making coffee or do I have to?”

Reluctantly, Yuri lifted himself out of corpse pose to join Otabek in the kitchen. “Better leave the coffee to me. You’ll just burn it.”

 

Otabek smiled through his teeth as Viktor showed him yet another photograph of Miso and Yuuri doing something cute, which looked pretty similar to the dozen photographs he’d already seen. It was endearing how in love Viktor was with his husband, but it could also get boring after awhile, too.

Yuri caught him trying to suppress an eyeroll. _I told you so,_ he mouthed, smirking triumphantly across the table as he tipped his beer at Otabek and took a smirking sip.

“Do you like the shrimp cakes? They’re my Yuuri’s secret recipe,” Viktor said, forcing another round of appetizers on his guests. He turned to Otabek. “Has your Yuri ever made you his katsudon pirozhki?”

Otabek raised his eyebrows at Yuri meaningfully, who only kicked him in the shin. “You never make me your special pirozhki. Why not?”

Yuri glared, kicking Otabek beneath the table again.

“Oh, you’ve never had Yurio’s katsudon pirozhki?” Yuuri interjected, pouring a healthy slug of wine into his glass. “They’re really tasty. A culinary masterpiece.” He toasted Viktor, who stole a kiss before they clinked glasses.

“You should really make them for him, Yuri,” Viktor said, completely straightfaced. “You’re such a bad host.” He trailed Yuuri back to the kitchen, where whatever was cooking simmered fragrantly.

Yuri turned red in anger before grumbling a string of curses. He did that sometimes, still, his pale skin blushing from a myriad of emotions, and Otabek’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. A moment later, Yuri kicked Otabek in the shin yet again, as though he were playing a particularly aggressive form of footsie.

The next time Yuri kicked, Otabek caught his foot before he could make contact, rubbing his fingers soothingly over Yuri’s bare ankle. “You kick me and you don’t make me special pirozhki. I thought we were friends.”

Yuri pointed his toes, and Otabek pressed his fingertips against the delicate ankle a bit harder, almost-but-not-quite a massage. “We are friends, stupid.” He was red again, though the tenderness in his voice suggested it wasn’t from anger this time. His toes wiggled in Otabek’s lap, and he leaned over the table, resting his chin in his hands and waggling his eyebrows with interest.

Suddenly, Katsuki and Viktor clamored into the dining room, laden down with plates and more alcohol, and Yuri tucked his foot under his own chair The four of them proceeded to overindulge in the spicy seafood stew as well as the alcohol that flowed generously.

“You two really shouldn’t drink so much. You have to train tomorrow,” Viktor admonished, although he graciously opened two more bottles of beer for his guests and served them with a smile.

“You’re my coach. You are literally giving me beer as you say this. Also Katsuki drank an entire bottle of wine to his face. You two are setting a horrible example for me, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.” Alcohol had always made Yuri even more aggressively verbal.

Viktor waved his hands in a way that said _fine_ with an expression that meant _you’ll pay for this later._ He did, however, pour himself and his Yuuri the last of the second bottle of wine. It wasn’t long before Viktor and his husband were tangled in a waltz through their living room, interrupting their steps every so often to sneak a kiss.  

“Viktor’s drunk,” Otabek said out of the corner of his mouth, his expression perfectly still except for the one lilting corner of his lips. It was impressive how Katsuki managed to make an emergency rescue look like an artful dip. All the dance training he’d had since coming to Russia was certainly paying off.

“Let’s get out of here before they start doing something disgusting. You would never know it, but Katsuki’s absolutely depraved,” Yuri said, nudging Otabek’s shoulder with his own and heading down the narrow hallway to open the apartment door.

Otabek followed. “Really?” he asked absentmindedly. It was still quite early, just past eight o’clock.

“Oh yeah. It happens whenever they start dancing,” Yuri answered with the kind of smile that showed his sharp incisors and made him look like a kitten about to misbehave. “Katsuki’s been taking this twerking class at the dance academy, and trust me, you do _not_ want to be anywhere near them when he starts demonstrating what he learned in class...”

Otabek just snorted softly in that way he had of half-laughing. Probably no one else would have picked up on the gesture, but Yuri caught his eye and cocked an eyebrow, giggling just a bit as he reached to close the door behind them, a little more loudly than strictly necessary.

St. Petersburg in mid-May was humid, and the air clung to their skin as they wandered, somehow finding themselves at the riverfront. It seemed as though half the neighborhood had the same idea: the pedestrian walkway teemed with people, some out for a stroll, others hawking food and sparklers.

They bought popsicles from an ice-cream truck. Yuri chose some blue monstrosity with a cartoon face while Otabek opted for a simple chocolate-covered ice cream bar.

“The river’s more beautiful in the wintertime,” Yuri slurred around the popsicle, his lips stained blue at the center. Otabek merely cocked his head, and Yuri obligingly filled in the blanks. “It’s quieter, you know. Less people. I can hear myself think.”

Otabek nodded, remembering another long visit to Russia, a two-week detour he’d taken on his way home from Stockholm after the 2019 Grand Prix. That January, the St Petersburg streets had been blisteringly cold and nearly deserted. He couldn’t quite remember why Yuri had dragged him here on such an evening--the howling wind had bitten at their cheeks, strong enough to make their eyes water as they’d stared out over the river. Someone was setting off fireworks in an unsanctioned celebration of Russian Christmas, and the sky had been lit up in plumes of red, green, and gold. they’d drunk mulled wine from paper coffee cups and The sweet liquid had slithered down into their bellies but hadn’t kept them quite warm enough against the bitter cold.

He remembered they way Yuri had shivered when he took a sip of the spiced wine, how he had drawn Yuri close to him on the pretense of keeping him warm. His friend’s pale face had been turned toward the fireworks, which stained his skin in soft colors, but his eyes had been on Otabek’s mouth as he sipped from the paper cup.

Yuri had been smaller then, only four or five centimeters taller than Otabek. It had been easy to tuck him into the crook of his arm, aligning their bodies from shoulders to waist. “Drink up,” Otabek had said, raising his paper cup to Yuri’s lips. The mulled wine had cooled to lukewarm, but it was still potent and sweet, so Yuri tipped his chin up, obliging the request.

A dribble of wine leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Greedy.” Otabek swiped the wine from Yuri’s cheek with the back of his glove, captivated when Yuri’s eyelids drifted half-closed at the contact. The words he spoke next were so faint, Otabek couldn’t be certain he’d heard them correctly: _You make me greedy._ Though spoken softly, the words were so loud they echoed

Otabek had heard his pulse echo in his ears. He’d leaned his forehead against the cold skin of Yuri’s cheek, even then not quite tall enough to look his friend in the eye in such close proximity. “Hmm?” The sound rumbled on Yuri’s windburnt skin.

Yuri’s tongue flicked out over his chapped lips, which had started to flake from the harsh tundra wind. “It’s nothing,” he said, but he’d unfolded himself from the crook of Otabek’s arm. Yuri was right next to him, but he’d stayed strangely distant the rest of that night.

The bitter aftertaste of that almost-kiss had lingered on Otabek’s tongue for months afterward. At the time, he’d told himself it was too soon after Alexei, that Yuri needed time to heal before he could decide what he wanted. After that, he’d blamed the distance, the inevitable time difference, but those had been nothing more than excuses for his own cowardice.  

They _had_ grown closer since. Though they still got separate hotel rooms during competitions, more often than not, they would end up spending the trip in whoever’s room had the softer beds. The two of them would spend their free time exploring whichever city they’d ended up in, and more often than not Otabek indulged Yuri’s predilection for tacky fashion as long as there were food vendors nearby and the local spirits flowed freely. There had been plenty of opportunities for them to change the nature of their relationship, they just.... hadn’t.

And if they hadn’t by now, then maybe they would never. If that was the case, it seemed kinder to have only half of Yuri than nothing of him at all.

Instead of thinking about that, Otabek tossed his arm across Yuri’s back and the two of them leaned over the railing to watch the sun set into the Neva River. “Ah,” Otabek teased as he rubbed Yuri’s bony spine where it peeked between the hoodie and tight jeans he wore, “You just like the cold. Admit it, Yura.”

Yuri quirked his mouth into a playful smile. “Admit it, Beka,” he repeated, mocking. “You’re a figure skater. You love the ice too.” He bit the last of his popsicle off of the stick with a _snick_ , and Otabek couldn’t help but notice that not only were his lips stained blue--so was his tongue. He inhaled, sharp, hoping that Yuri didn’t notice (but of course he did. This is something that Otabek has never understood: how easily Yuri picks up on his emotions, when everyone else he knows accuses him of being impossible to read).

The blonde man grinned, then shrugged out of Otabek’s embrace. “You’re sweaty. And you _stink,_ ” he muttered, a particular emphasis on the last word, but he didn’t protest when Otabek bumped their shoulders together with playful menace.

Yuri pulled a face at him to change the subject with an exaggerated cringe.  “Anyway. It’s too bad that Beijing was chosen for the Olympics. I was looking forward to seeing you in Almaty again next year.”

“Yeah?” He’d been disappointed, of course--the 2022 Olympics were likely to be Otabek’s last, and he’d been excited at the prospect of getting gold on the podium in his hometown. It seemed a fitting coda to his career, though perhaps he’d hang on for a season or two before retiring now. The next several decades of his life stretched out in front of him, blank--he wasn’t sure that he wanted to stay in skating, or coach, for the rest of his life. He’d given nearly two decades to the sport, and while he loved skating, he was sure there had to be something _more_ , something else that had been missing for a while now.

“It’s been awhile since I visited you there. Nearly two years now.” Two years ago, Yuri had still been dating the douchey speed skater while Otabek himself had been entangled in the last dregs of an on-and-off-again relationship with the moody Russian translator with an alcohol addiction, a relationship that had been dying even before Yuri’s visit to Kazakhstan, though the visit had certainly helped it limp toward its inevitable end.

Yuri, though. Yuri would definitely skate til his body literally couldn’t take it. He would make a good coach, Otabek mused, if he managed to curb his temper and learn words other than _fuck_. He had seen the way Yuri encouraged the younger skaters at the rink; his approach was at once full of tough love and eminently caring. Otabek had seen his influence on the incoming generation of Russian skaters, their fluid, precise choreography proof of Yuri’s influence...

A twinge in his foot pulled him out of his thoughts. Yuri was doing the thing again, being annoying for attention, and he’d stepped on Otabek’s toes, too hard to be an accident. Pulling himself out of his memory, Otabek said. “In Almaty, the air is cleaner.” It was a stupid thing to say, but safe.

Yuri nodded. The air in Beijing was notoriously terrible, and it was no secret that most athletes hated competing in that city. “Better food, too. “They don’t have kuurdak in China.”

“Ah,” Otabek said, his eyes crinkling and amused--Yuri’s adventurous appetite was one of his favorite things about his friend; he never hesitated to try even the most exotic dishes. “They do not. Only in Kazakhstan... Though China is more accepting of some things.”

Yuri knew him well enough that he didn't have to ask _which_ things. “That’s for sure,” Yuri agreed. “Though I don’t know if Viktor and piggy will be any less disgusting over there. It might actually be too late for them, that’s just the way they are now,” but his eyes were clouded, fixed on some random point on the horizon. The words lacked Yuri’s habitual vitriol, as if they weren’t quite the words he’d meant to say.

They weren’t. Yuri watched the lights on the opposite bank of the river flicker on the water, but something heavy settled in his stomach. Just looking at Otabek made it heavier, until his whole skeleton was weighted down with it. He wasn’t sure when he’d started to feel this way about his best friend. Surely the Alexei debacle had helped him realize some things; most notably, it had helped him to put a name to the weird warm feeling that had been growing for his oldest friend for a very long time.

Just then, Otabek’s arm tightened around him, drawing Yuri flush to his side. His eyes were unfocused, and when he spoke it was just a murmur, lost to the burbling crowd.

Yuri craned his head down, leaning closer to Otabek’s lips. “What? I didn’t hear...”

Otabek pressed his teeth together, nearly biting his tongue. _Better to have half of him than none at all._ The unspoken words tickled on the roof of his mouth. With Yuri so near, the temptation to take _all_ throbbed in Otabek’s veins...

Yet Otabek somehow cleared his throat enough to repeat:  “I said, it’s too late for piggy and Viktor. But does it have to be too late for us?” He spoke the words softly, deliberately, surprising himself with their strength.

Yet for all the harshness of his words, Otabek’s lips were soft, wet with saliva and wanting. _But why have only half, when it’s better to have all of him..._ He was only a man, after all, helpless to resist--he tilted his chin up, Yuri’s lips just a centimeter from his own, Yuri could lean down, come closer, swallow the distance between them as he swallowed Otabek's tongue. _Better to have all of him than nothing at all._ A centimeter, nothing more, lingered between them, lingered between everything and nothing.

Yuri’s face slackened for just a moment--eyes drifting shut, lips parting--before he froze against Otabek’s cheek. His army green eyes flared and went feral with something like terror. Like a tiger, he held perfectly still in the moment before pouncing--

“What the fuck about us?” The words came out all wrong, harsh and hostile, and Otabek’s eyes narrowed and mouth pulled tight. Yuri hadn’t meant to, but if Otabek had drawn any closer, he was bound to do something he would regret.

It seemed he had already done something worth regretting: the next moment, Otabek turned his head, withdrawing his arm from where it had been slung around Yuri’s back. The move put a few inches between them. It was unusually warm for this early in the season, humid too, but Yuri shivered, the kind of chill that had nothing to do wit the weather, a chill that started deep inside, under the spine.

Shit. He’d fucked up... Yuri bit his lip, fighting against the urge to kiss it all better. _Because it was a kiss that started this whole stupid thing. So of course that would make it better._ He was fucking stupid. That kind of thinking made no sense at all.

Yuri grunted, frustrated, fighting the urge to claw his fingers through his hair, or kick something, or both. Otabek turned his head, raising an eyebrow in question but he did not come closer, nor did he offer comfort. Trying not to be hurt by that, Yuri swiped his lips and shook his head, and they walked back to the apartment in dangerous silence. Whatever the next word it was they dared to say, it was certain to be deafening.

 

By the time they wandered back to Yuri’s apartment, it was nearly ten o’clock. The glamorous lifestyle of an international athlete meant that they’d have to be awake by five-thirty, and one benefit of St Petersburg’s northern latitude was that it got light early. Even a bit hungover, it would be fairly easy to wake up when the sun was already high in the sky.

Otabek let Yuri have the bathroom while he set an alarm and shrugged out of his clothes, leaving a shower for the morning, to step into the cutoff sweats he’d been wearing as pajamas. He saw no reason to bother with a shirt, especially when he would undoubtedly find some excuse to discard it during the night. Yuri hadn't been wrong when he'd accused Otabek of being a nudist.

“Wear clothes.” Yuri snapped when he entered the room, tossing one of his shirts at Otabek, who lazily let the garment drop to the floor. He’d been grumpy since the waterfront, sulking with a single-minded determination.

Whatever. Otabek refused to deal with him right now. He was hurt, too. _You could just have said you weren’t interested. Why should I be nice? You didn’t have to be cruel._ He arranged himself on the sheets defiantly. “I refuse to wear a shirt to bed when you have such nice sheets.” He crossed his arms against his broad bare chest, over which a scattering of dark fine hair clustered between his pecs and over his nipples. The waistband of his shorts hanging just a bit too low, revealing the cut of his lower abs... Yuri swallowed though his mouth was strangely dry. Was Otabek trying to call his bluff? Did he know how badly Yuri had wanted to accept that whisper of a kiss?

Yuri reached to the floor for the discarded shirt and lobbed it right at that sprinkling of black hair.

“Can you just, like, not be a nudist for one night?” Yuri choked, closing his eyes. It did nothing for the heat that flared between his legs, nor for the weird guilt that lingered in his chest. “You know, I could make you sleep on the couch.” He should, but he wouldn’t, and for all the wrong, most selfish reasons, too. He took a deep breath and lay down next to Otabek, who pulled the shirt over his head with a scowl on his face.

“Dude. Please don’t. You love me more than that.” Even in the dark, Yuri could see Otabek grimace, though they both knew it was an empty threat.

“Who says I love you at all?” Yuri grumbled into the pillow. He suppressed an urge to kick Otabek’s shin. Though shin-kicking was one of the ways Yuri showed his affection, he’d already been an asshole once tonight. He should be nicer, lest Otabek continue brooding, or worse, try to guilt-trip Yuri for his shitty behavior. 

“Yura. You’re so _mean_.” He knew Otabek only let the note of a whine into his voice because it would make Yuri feel even more guilty, and a guilty Yuri would be sweet to him. Yuri sighed. Maybe he should learn how to apologize, with actual apology-words.

But as much as he wanted to say them, the words were beyond him now. Instead, he gathered up Otabek in a long-limbed hug.  “I’m nice to you. Nicer than you deserve, anyway,” he murmured into Otabek’s hair, apologetic and pliable.

For his part, Otabek accepted the silent apology with an equally silent forgiveness.

Maybe he should feel bad for manipulating his best friend so blatantly, but Yuri was so seldom sweet. Otabek would enjoy this a little bit longer. He settled into his friend’s arms, letting out a soft, satisfied groan.

The moment was like so many that had passed between them, yet it felt different. Heavier, almost. Charged. Ever since the waterfront, since Yuri had shrugged off another almost-kiss. _Better to have half of him than none at all._ Otabek repeated the words silently, like a mantra, focusing on his breath. Then he felt it--

Yuri’s fingers, scuttling beneath Otabek’s shirt and unraveling on the skin of his stomach, soothing his skin in a way that could only mean--

“Beka.” Otabek’s name sounded familiar yet strange, half a plea and half a sob, humid against his neck.

“Tell me to stop,” Yuri begged, dragging the wet line of his mouth against Otabek’s jaw. There was something raw in his words that wrapped itself around Otabek’s insides and squeezed. “Tell me to stop. Before I can’t take it back anymore.” His fingers on Otabek’s stomach trembled but he did not let go.

“Yura--” The end of Yuri’s name twisted in his throat. Whatever else Otabek might have said was stolen from the tip of his tongue when Yuri leaned down, pressing his dry lips to Otabek’s. A hint of stubble poked against his upper lip, and Otabek parted his lips in surprise (in all of his fantasies, somehow he’d forgotten to imagine this) and Yuri’s tongue stole into his mouth, the fingers on his wrist sliding up to his neck, holding him in place while Yuri drew another kiss from him, then another, his stubble scraping Otabek’s sensitive lips.

Yuri tasted like toothpaste, like bitter Russian beer, the kind of desire that had aged like fine wine, so heady it could get you drunk on a single sip. Otabek took a deep sip, and let himself be lost.

His hand snaked up Yuri’s shirt, and he carded his fingers through the wiry patch of hair on Yuri’s chest that had so captured his imagination yesterday, at the pool. With two fingers, Otabek tugged on a tuft just above Yuri’s nipple. He was surprised when Yuri gasped and bucked, the heat of his dick warm against Otabek’s thigh as he dragged his hips in small circles, the blunt tip of his penis a gentle pressure against Otabek’s flesh. The sounds he made as he gently thrust against Otabek’s thigh were obscene--small whining sounds, soft and mewling.

He moved one of his hands to grasp Yuri’s penis, which stiffened even more in his hand. “You want me.” His own half-hard dick gave a throb of interest when Yuri _moaned_ , and Otabek gave his own cock a squeeze in his briefs, though he did not move to remove them. Yuri was still in his pajamas, was still far too clothed, and Otabek intended to do something about that.

“It’s your fault. You’re nearly naked in my bed, how did you know I wanted this?” Yuri spoke the words against his lips, refusing even to tear himself away enough to speak the words clearly.

Otabek bit his cheek softly before pulling away just enough to strip Yuri of his pajamas in efficient movements. “How could you think I wouldn’t?” He punctuated the words with another squeeze to Yuri’s penis, which jerked in his hand. A few strokes more, and the head started to drip; soon the room echoed with the slap of Yuri’s foreskin sliding over the head of his dick.

“Shit, shit, shit...” Yuri twisted onto his side, digging his fingertips into Otabek’s briefs. “Let me touch you like that. I have to touch you....”

Otabek paused his stroking long enough to wiggle out of his briefs, his dick springing forward from the neat triangle of pubic hair above. Yuri ran his fingers through the thick curls before squeezing the base of his penis, his other hand darting down to caress his balls. He couldn’t help the moan it tore out of him, “‘S good, Yura, more...”

Yuri obliged, finally settling into a rhythm. His gaze flitted between Otabek’s face and his cock, hard and solid in Yuri’s hand, a bit thicker than his own, darker, flushed almost purple with blood. Otabek’s hand on his dick started to move again, matching Yuri’s rhythm, and Yuri sucked a needy kiss to Otabek’s square jaw, leaving a spot of saliva that reflected the moonlight a moment before Otabek turned to him, mouth open in a sigh that Yuri sucked into a kiss that quickly turned into a wet, messy thing that lingered between them.

“God, I want to fuck you.” The words were forced out between Yuri’s teeth in a near snarl. He punctuated the sentence with a screw of his hips, his hard dick sliding from Otabek’s grip, which had grown slack in his shock at the desperation in Yuri’s voice.

Yuri dragged his dick from Otabek’s hip to his plush ass, just below the plumpest curve of his body. “Oh, I’d fuck you slow just like this, oh _fuck...”_ He gave an experimental thrust of his hips, and head of his cock nudged against Otabek’s balls, over his perineum, over the tightly whorled hole just a little bit beneath... Yuri moaned, long and low and broken. His cockhead was so sensitive; he could feel the difference in texture between the thin skin of Otabek’s balls, the smooth skin of his taint, the slight roughness of his wrinkled asshole--Yuri thrust again, slower this time, dragging out the sensations as long as he could.

Distantly, Yuri felt a warm hand on his lower back, guiding his hips to thrust more deeply, to twist his hips and feel the flesh of Otabek's ass yield to his cock...

His hand clasped around Otabek’s where he'd been touching himself through Yuri's orgasm, and they stroked him together in counterpoint to the movements of Yuri’s hips. “Fuck, you’re so hard for me,” Yuri muttered against the crook of Otabek’s neck. The resulting throb and dribble of precum that leaked into his hand made Yuri moan and drag his dick between Otabek’s cheeks. “Fuck, that’s it...” Another drop of liquid dribbled into Yuri’s hand. “Give it to me... c’mon, give it to me...”

Otabek removed his hand from his cock, putting it on the mattress for leverage. In the next moment, he thrust his dick into Yuri’s clenched fist, a move that resulted in his ass sliding up and down the hot, wet length of Yuri’s cock.

Yuri moaned and held his hips still. His dick was twitching, and he grabbed his balls in and attempt  to delay the inevitable. But then Otabek lifted his leg, squeezing the head of Yuri’s penis between the round muscles of his ass, and Yuri spilled between them, hot and wet and without warning, between Otabek’s cheeks. “Shit! Fuck, fuck--’m sorry--” But Otabek merely sprinkled Yuri’s face with soft, closed mouth kisses, riding him until his dick stopped twitching.

In the aftermath, Yuri played with his cum, just rubbing it between his fingers and over Otabek’s entrance, not penetrating, just teasing, feeling the tight hole pucker and twitch beneath his thumb. “You’re wet for me here,” he said, drowsy in the aftermath of his orgasm.

Otabek swiped his hips against Yuri’s thigh, the wiry hair prickling the head of his cock, which leaked a slick trail everywhere it touched. “I’m wet for you here, too.”

Yuri obliged him, not even bothering to tease as he tightened his hand around Otabek’s dick. “Fuck yeah, you are.” He pulled Otabek’s foreskin back, tickling the sensitive exposed head, which dribbled into his palm. His fingers slick with Otabek’s precum .

He was too drunk on his own orgasm to tease much longer. Soon enough, he settled into a rhythm of short, quick strokes, the kind that was almost guaranteed to get someone off, and quick, while his thumb continued to tease at Otabek’s hole, still filthy with Yuri’s own come.

Otabek was no exception, and it wasn't long before he shuddered came on Yuri’s stomach and the sheets.

“Come on. We’ve got to clean up.” Otabek nudged his shoulder.

Yuri buried his face in the pillow. “Fuck, no, I don’t care. Let me sleep.” He was filthy with come, which striped his torso from belly to thigh, and he knew it, but he lacked the motivation to do anything about it when the bed was right here.

“You’re dirty, Yuri.” The mattress shifted and Otabek padded off somewhere, returning a few minutes later with a damp washcloth. He scrubbed Yuri’s belly and thighs clean of sweat and semen, then pressed a kissed to his navel, which made Yuri let out a soft squeal.

“Tickles,” he explained, thumb softly pressing onto Otabek’s cheekbone, who answered him with a kiss to the side of his mouth, closed-mouth but not chaste, before tucking himself and the duvet around Yuri’s shoulders.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Mhmm.” Yuri curled a long arm around Otabek’s shoulders and down towards his waist to draw him into his own negative spaces. “Lay with me until then.”

 _Every night_ , Otabek thought, but it was not the kind of promise he knew how to speak aloud. So he held on to Yuri and they held still against the night instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you hear that?... that's the sound of the muse getting off. i hope you all got with us.
> 
> thanks so much supporting this filth and letting us tease you for 20,000+ words. your kudos and comments inspire me to new lows. as always, jeep them coming... the muse is listening.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well dudes, sorry about the delay. i was travelling for work for several weeks and was too busy to write. don't you worry, i haven't forgotten about this fic! while updates are likely to be slower for the foreseeable future, the individual chapters are getting longer to make up for it (this one is 8,900 words! to think chapter one was only about 2000). keep the comments and kudos coming--the muse and i are listening, and the feedback truly helps to make updates come faster.
> 
> this chapter has two sex scenes to make up for the long wait!
> 
> thanks to [nahiara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Nahiara/pseuds/Elle_Nahiara), and [muspell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell) for the beta! extra thanks to [kinoglowworm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KinoGlowWorm/pseuds/KinoGlowWorm) for providing details about st petersburg & russian & kazakh culture. i wouldn't be what i am today if not for you terrible humans enabling me to new lows.

It was rare for Otabek to wake before his alarm. He was a deep sleeper by nature, seldom disturbed by anything less than his phone alarm’s loudest, most obnoxious ringtone, and utterly useless before his first two cups of coffee beside. In this half-awake state, it took Otabek several minutes to determine the cause of his uncharacteristically early awakening: a sleeping Yuri had rolled half on top of him in his sleep, his knobby elbow digging into a tender spot on Otabek’s torso.

It took another minute before his caffeine-deprived brain noticed this: Yuri was not only attempting to smother Otabek in his sleep, but he was also completely naked.

Otabek was awake and aware all at once. Images of last night swirled through his head, even more vivid than his most well-loved fantasies: Yuri’s hesitant mouth becoming bolder as Otabek accepted his kisses, Yuri pushing him down to fuck against his asscrack and coming there, then stroking Otabek to a finish of his own with Yuri’s semen still staining his thighs.

Next to him, Yuri sighs, digging his elbow once more into the soft space between two of Otabek’s ribs. As he moved to extricate himself from Yuri’s grip, Otabek was struck by a wicked thought--he ran his hand down the length of Yuri’s waist, rubbing softly and then with more intent. Yuri grumbled in his sleep, his body shifting a bit closer to Otabek’s own, and Otabek continued with his caresses, satisfied by the way Yuri was drawing closer to him.

Last night had been more than Otabek thought he’d ever have, but it couldn’t possibly be enough after all the months Otabek had swallowed his desire for Yuri until he’d nearly choked on it... It had only been hours since he’d had him, but he wanted Yuri again all the same. Beginning to lose his patience, Otabek tugged the lobe of Yuri’s ear in between his fingers with a pinch, and Yuri stirred.

Yuri was strangely docile when he woke up. He blinked rapidly, as though trying to familiarize himself with his surroundings as though he had woken up somewhere unfamiliar. Eventually, his eyes alighted on Otabek’s face, just inches from his own on the pillow, and his gaze grew focused and sharp. “Oh. It’s you,” he mumbled, the words in his mouth slurred with sleep.

Otabek traced his fingertip down the strong bridge of Yuri’s nose. “Who else would be here, hmmm?” he teased.

Yuri leaned his forehead against Otabek’s own. His eyelashes were long enough to brush softly against Otabek’s cheek. “Only you, stupid.”

They spent the next several minutes exchanging the kind of lazy, closed-mouth kisses lovers traded to avoid morning breath before Otabek trailed his mouth down Yuri’s throat to graze his teeth against Yuri’s collarbone. When Yuri whined and pushed his head down, Otabek obliged him, trailing his tongue down the valley between Yuri’s pecs.

The hair on Yuri’s chest tickled at his nose and lips. He bit down on a nipple. One of the yellow strands caught between Otabek’s teeth, and his lips curled around the pink bud in a smile as one of Yuri’s thumbs rubbed over his cheekbone.

Yuri fondled Otabek’s cock, which was warm and half-hard in his hand, just gently enough to tease. “Shit, I just wanna get you off...” Yuri could think of nothing else, only the need that simmered between them. Surely if they did not give in, it would eat them alive.

Otabek groaned and squirmed in Yuri’s lazy grip. He bit down harder on Yuri’s nipples, and Yuri obliged him with a whimper and a squeeze of his hand. Otabek continued pumping his hips in and out of Yuri’s hand while alternating swipes of his teeth and tongue to Yuri’s nipples, his fingernails raking faint pink lines down Yuri’s chest and torso down to where his morning erection bulged between his legs--

Their alarms went off in unison--Otabek’s blaring classic alarm tone making a strange counterpoint to the stupid pop song Yuri had chosen as his wake-up anthem. They broke apart, faces close but not touching, breathing each other’s breath as they considered....

Dawn leaked in through the curtains and stained Yuri’s pale face and hair purple. Otabek took a moment to drink in his expression, at once bleary yet intent, a look that Otabek had seen so many times now but so rarely directed at himself.

Yet before he could kiss that expression off of Yuri’s face, Yuri pushed his hand to Otabek’s chest then suspended himself upright, on the single arm, his body bent nearly at right angle; Yuri’s biceps barely trembled to hold himself there. His muscles were tight with anticipation, with wanting... He knew if he let himself, he could lose the whole day here in bed with Otabek. There was only one thing he wanted as much as gold in Beijing, and it was laid out beneath him--Otabek with his mouth open and wanting, his hair mussed and skin creased by sleep. Yuri hovered above him, holding still, holding himself apart until his breath calmed and he was finally able to speak without gasping.

“You’ll stretch with me?” Yuri asked. His hands slipped from Otabek’s cock as he forced himself to ignore its interested throb, to his inner thigh, halfway between Otabek’s hips and knees. Yuri rubbed the muscle with the flat of his hand, feeling it flex when Otabek relaxed into the touch and answered his question with a single word, a hoarsely whispered _yes_.

They scarfed a couple of handful of cashews each, standing on their feet in the kitchen, then settled into a repeat of yesterday’s intense partner yoga. But today felt less like yoga than like foreplay... Yuri lingered, daring to caress and slide his body sinuously against Otabek’s as they shifted from pose to pose together on the mats.

From a straddle, Otabek pressed the soles of his feet against Yuri’s, and they lifted their feet up into a v-sit together, hands resting on each other’s shoulders, looking one another in the eye and breathing in long, slow lungfuls as they held the pose.

Otabek’s body was appreciating the stretch, certainly, but it appreciated Yuri’s even more: Yuri’s legs were nearly parallel to his torso, and his eyes were scrunched shut in concentration as he pushed his abused muscles to their limit. This time, when Yuri pushed his legs out to the side, Otabek ran his feet down the inside of his legs in a tease until his feet pressed softly against Yuri’s crotch, the arches of his feet framing the bulge of Yuri’s penis between his toes and heels.

Yuri looked down between his legs, and bit his lip before bucking his hips gently. His dick, which had been half-hard since their aborted mutual groping session in bed, thickened with blood.

Otabek looked at him, his expression somehow more serious than always. “You like this.” It was not a question.

Yuri ducked his head. He didn’t know how he had enough blood left to blush, but his cheeks burned, and he knew they were red. He could feel Otabek’s gaze lingering on the high red peaks of his cheekbones, before he heard Otabek draw in a long breath as he pushed his feet down against Yuri’s dick, which was thickening rapidly between his high arches.

With a small whining noise, Yuri bucked his hips up again. Otabek sat back on his haunches, supporting himself with his hands flat on the yoga mat, his palms at his hips, lifting his ass off the ground just an inch or two for leverage. His toes were pressed against Yuri’s pubis, his heels on Yuri’s upper thighs, framing the bulge of Yuri’s dick attractively.

The space between the arches of his feet provided a tight hole for Yuri to fuck into, and with a howl not unlike a stray kitten begging for food, he began to hump between them. Otabek got the message, and pressed his feet tighter together to give Yuri a bit more friction. His toes dug small indents into the skin of Yuri’s lower stomach, which was tantalizingly pale and clustered with short golden hairs and contrasted nicely with the black yoga leggings that clung to his lower half.

Yuri shifted, making another inarticulate noise as he attempted to push down the waistband of his leggings enough to expose his erection without escaping the tight grasp of Otabek’s feet. Otabek took mercy on him, and released Yuri’s cock  from between his feet before leaning forward to push the clingy fabric down below Yuri’s balls, letting his dick spring up out into the open.

Yuri was fully hard and starting to drip. A bead of precum lingered on the pouting foreskin, which was long enough to cover the head completely, and Otabek merely sat back and watched that drop of slick overflow and dribble down the length appreciatively.

But Yuri had other ideas. He made that sound again, the howling hungry whine. “Fuck, Otabek. Put them back.”

“Put what back?”

Yuri huffed, blowing back his messy bangs. “You know.”

Otabek felt the corner of his mouth twitch, but he forced himself to be impassive as he traced his toes up Yuri’s thighs, just centimeters away from his leaking penis. “No,” he said, voice purposefully emotionless. “I don’t know.”

“Your fucking feet! C’mon, fuck...” Yuri tried to slide down far enough to touch Otabek’s toes to his cock, but Otabek held him back, refusing to give ground. He waited and watched Yuri bite his lip, which was raw and red and glistening, just like the penis that shuddered between his legs. Otabek had known Yuri would be beautiful like this, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite this way all the same.

He took a moment to trace his big toe up Yuri’s thigh, toward where the hair thickened as it approached his thick bush. Finally, he brought his feet to either side of Yuri’s dick, and just as Yuri groaned in relief, began to slide his feet up and down Yuri’s cock, which twitched and sputtered between his arches.

A clump of Yuri’s pubic hair wedged itself between Otabek’s toes, and he yanked. Yuri yelped, but he didn’t protest when Otabek pulled, and yanked again, this time harder.

After the earlier teasing, Yuri couldn’t take much more of this. He thrashed against the soles of Otabek’s feet, the rough skin of the calluses on Otabek’s heels and the ball of his foot almost but not quite too much, a tantalizing contrast to the smoother skin on his arches. With a few more thrusts, Yuri began to feel the telltale tightening in his balls, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he got off.

After a few more thrusts, Otabek dug his toes into Yuri’s pubic bone, his heels gently pressing against Yuri’s balls. Yuri just groaned and thrust harder, into the delicious pressure that seemed to be trapping all of his blood between his legs, underneath the skin of his cock.

Soon enough, the inevitable wave of pleasure crested, and Yuri bit the inside of his cheek rather than let out the moan that threatened to escape. A twinge in his balls ached so deeply it threatened to tear his organs in half--after a particularly harsh push of Otabek’s heels against his balls, Yuri let go, coming against Otabek’s legs and all over the floor.

“You liked fucking my feet, didn’t you Yura.” Otabek’s feet and shins were covered in white strands of Yuri’s semen, which looked obscene against his tan skin.

Yuri nodded, too breathless to respond. “You’re so fucking dirty,” Otabek accused. “Look what you did.” He brought his foot to Yuri’s face, and Yuri leaned forward, the tip of his tongue peeking just past his pouting lips.

He snatched his foot away. “I didn’t say you could.”

Yuri winced and whined. “Beka--”

The way his voice sounded--all husky and hoarse--on Otabek’s nickname was his undoing. He reached for his own cock, which he’d been teasing the entire time he’d let Yuri fuck his feet, his basketball shorts around his ankles. Otabek tugged on his balls, which felt impossibly full considering he’d gotten off twice yesterday, then wrapped his fist around his own dick.

He stroked only a few times before grabbing Yuri’s hand with his free one, guiding it to the flushed tip of his cock. “Touch me _now._ ” The head pouted out of his foreskin, which was not as long as Yuri’s, not covering it completely when he was hard like this.

Yuri squeezed a few times, then withdrew his hand. Otabek was about to complain when he felt Yuri leaning forward, bent nearly in half to lick softly at his cockhead, the cum on Otabek’s feet leaving white streaks on his black leggings, the waistband still pushed just below his slowly-softening penis.

Otabek continue to jerk himself as Yuri lavished attention to his cockhead. The bristly beard which had thickened overnight occasionally poked into Otabek’s sensitive skin, and he couldn’t help but let the impassive look on his face turn into something desperate. After a few minutes, Otabek jerked back, narrowly avoiding coming on Yuri’s face as he covered his cockhead with his palm.

An errant drop of semen streaked Yuri’s neck from behind his ear to drip delicately over his collarbone, dangerously close to the neckline of his tank top. Otabek crawled forward and laid down on top of Yuri, then licked the come down to where it pooled in the hollow of Yuri’s collarbone. Otabek sucked longing kisses along the sharp bone to where it perched on Yuri’s right shoulder, a knob on top of the spare muscle. He tongued that bone for a moment, until Yuri began to stir beneath him.

“I'm going to be late to the gym,” Yuri murmured, voice still husky and fucked-out.

“So get up,” Otabek nudged, and lifted his torso off the sweaty yoga mat. He grabbed for Yuri’s arm, yanking his friend up off the floor.

In response, Yuri dragged him back down to the now-filthy yoga mat. “Just a minute longer.” Something sticky streaked down Otabek’s side but he didn’t quite care.

Yuri bumped his forehead against Otabek’s, nuzzling him like a lazy kitten. “You’re a terrible influence on me, you know. I’m never late for practic _e.”_ It’s true, in the fifteen years he’d been on the ice, Yuri Plisetsky had nearly never been late for training. He had a soldier’s punctuality ingrained into him after years of discipline. Yuri may have wanted an Olympic gold more than anything, but right now, compared this moment, it seemed so insignificant, just another medal... could the coolness of the metal and the weight of the ribbon on Yuri’s neck compare to the boneless, sticky heat of Otabek that settled there?

Otabek kissed him on the tail of his eyebrow, and let Yuri hold onto him just a bit longer before dragging him up off the floor. “You promised me coffee, Yura.” 

Yuri glared, but he made Otabek two cups of coffee, with warm milk, just the way he liked, simply to watch his eyelids dip in pleasure each he held the cup to his lips for a sip. He was nearly fifteen minutes late by the time he made it to the gym, but somehow he knew those several minutes spent stealing kisses thick and bitter with coffee would be worth his trainer’s ire.

 

 

When Yuri arrived at the gym, his trainer Dmitriy, with whom Yuri met twice a week, was standing by the rack of weights, impatiently glaring at his phone.

“Sorry I’m late,” Yuri said, scratching at his head. “I um, slept in,” which was the kind of excuse that was halfway between the truth and a lie, but even so, he found he could not look Dmitriy in the eye as he spoke. Though Otabek had left no visible marks either last night or this morning, Yuri was certain he wore the weight of Otabek’s hands and teeth plain as day.

Dmitriy narrowed his eyes. “You are better than this, Plisetsky.” The man towered over Yuri by at least five inches and a hundred pounds, and Yuri knew it was best just to nod rather than try to make another explanation. Anything he said would come off as an excuse. “You’ll be doing an extra rep on all your sets as a reminder not to waste my time.” Dmitriy nodded to the 30kg kettlebell next to his feet on the mat, and Yuri squatted down, and popped up into a series of warm-up swings.

As he settled into the rhythm of the exercises, Yuri settled into his body. He felt the movements in a different way than he ever had, really paying attention to way each of his muscles fired up in succession during the moves. He felt the force work its way up from the soles of his feet through his ankles, knees, and hips; he could feel each vertebrae of his spine activate when he strained to lift the weight above his head.

He knew he was pouring sweat, panting. His hair stuck to the sides of his face, catching on the blond stubble he’d neglected to shave in his hurry to get to the gym that morning. Though he didn’t want to admit it, at the end of each set, the extra rep made Yuri’s muscles protest--the muscles of his face wanted to grimace, but Yuri relaxed his expression. It was just wasted energy to scowl with your suffering, after all. And as much as he’d complain later, Yuri was thankful that Dmitriy was forcing him to work harder in retaliation for his tardiness. With the Olympics so close, he couldn’t afford to get distracted.

Just like a soldier, Yuri Plisetsky lived a highly regimented life. Precise activities were to be completed at precise times. Nutrition was calculated to the macro, meant to be ingested at strategic times rather than one was hungry. Someone told him what to do and when to do it more often than not. Sometimes it felt less like a life, and more like a drill. He had been told what to do, when to do it, and how to do it for his entire career as a professional skater; just as a soldier would, he took his orders. All he had to do was show up and conquer.

And conquer he had. At only twenty-one, Yuri had smashed every single one of Viktor’s records, some of them more than once. He’d amassed a collection of medals that few skaters, contemporary or not, could match, and he knew he had at least another four years as a competitive skater, as long as his body was able to adjust to its increases in height and weight without destroying his joints along the way. Hardly more than a teenager, he knew that he was more than halfway to being considered one of the greatest skaters of all time.

As a soldier, Yuri had thrived in that kind of environment. But after a decade and a half, Yuri was feeling restless and a bit reckless--Otabek made him want to be reckless, or at least try. Loathe as he was to admit it to himself, Yuri was beginning to understand what had caused Viktor to fuck off to Japan at the height of his career all those years ago.... Otabek would only be in St Petersburg for five more days, and Yuri burned with the impulse to buy himself a one-way ticket and follow him back to Almaty.

He put down the weight, shaking his shoulders before lying on the ground to complete his floor exercises. With the weight positioned over his chest, Yuri put his right leg out straight, then transferred his body weight to push his body into a one-legged bridge. He held the position for a couple of counts, then lowered his hip, forcing himself to concentrate on the strain in his muscles, which was his only anchor to reality.

He knew that it was stupid to take those kinds of chances, especially with the Olympics less than a year away, especially after last season, officially the worst of his career, and he was counting his first year as a junior skater too. Regulating his breath with his movements, Yuri lay back to switch legs, and counted off the reps in his head as Dmitriy assessed, offering occasional critiques of Yuri’s form.

Yuri managed to complete another two sets of the sadistic regimen without letting his mind wander too much. As he settled into the cooldown, Dmitriy scrutinized him, thick brow scrunched hard enough to cast his eyes into shadow. “You’ve gotten stronger, Yuri,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d be able to handle the extra reps so easily. We should increase the weight by 10kg for this coming week, but stick to six reps each, no more.”

Yuri put the 40kg weight down with a huff, puffing out his newly-developed chest muscles. “I’m stronger than a lot of people give me credit for.” Lots of people saw Yuri, his slim frame and wild mane, and immediately dismissed him. Perhaps his tendency to wear neon pink didn’t help matters, either, but that was beside the point.

Strangely enough, as many times as Otabek had beaten Yuri on the podium, he had never underestimated Yuri’s strength. Only someone like Otabek, a competitor, an equal, would ever have the right to do so--and yet Otabek never did.

Dmitriy grunted in response, guiding him through a complicated series of cool-down exercises before assessing Yuri’s ankle. “Your ankle seems to be doing better.”

Yuri frowned. “It creaks all the time.” Since the spill he’d taken before Skate Canada last year, the ankle had gotten better--it just hadn’t gotten quite _right_. It cracked often, not only when he was skating, but also doing routine things like going up the stairs, and was more prone to twists and sprains. 

Dmitriy shrugged. “An athlete’s pains never quite go away completely. We just get better at bearing them.” He released Yuri’s ankle with a reassuring pat, and Yuri closed his eyes, considering.

 

 

Otabek sank into a half-squat, watching his reflection in the dance-studio mirror as he shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to his left heel. He grabbed his right foot at the base of his big toe, testing his balance before he pulled his knee up and in to lift his leg up to his shoulder, holding it there for a moment before dropping his leg behind him and leaning his torso forward. Somehow, Otabek managed to keep his balance even through the tricky reverse steps, which Katsuki insisted that he learn to skate _backwards_ , of all things. No amount of logic could convince Katsuki that such things were impossible....

“Hmm. That’s interesting,” Katsuki said. Otabek stole a look at him in the mirror. Yuuri’s hand was on his chin, fingers absentmindedly pulling at his lips as he eyed Otabek’s modified step sequence. “You’re much more confident today with the steps. Sensual, even.”

“I wasn’t before?”

Yuri shrugged, pulling at his lip again with his thumb before dropping his hand to his side. “No. You weren’t like this yesterday.” he paused, considering. “There was no... fluidity to your movements. This is good... Perhaps you can land these on the ice now.”

Otabek cringed. He had fallen more on the the ice in the last two days than he had fallen the entire previous season because of Katsuki’s impossible choreography.

Yuuri caught his expression, and laughed. “Sorry, it’s just--your face doesn’t move very much.” It took him a few more seconds to get himself together enough to add, “You’re doing fine. It’s not easy to learn a whole new type of dance, much less on skates." Otabek nodded empathetically, and Katsuki smiled, continuing. “Viktor taught me lots of things about skating. But that’s something I learned from Yurio--it doesn’t matter how many times you fall in practice as long as you land them when it counts.”

Otabek shook his head in disbelief. He’d seen Yuri train, and warm up, but he’d never really seen any of Yuri’s routines in the early stages, before they became the precise and polished performances for which Yuri was known.

“Well, he’s a mess for the first few weeks with new choreography. Spinning out, tripping over his step sequences, missing half his jumps...” Yuuri considered for a moment. “Then all of a sudden, it just... flows for him. Last season, it happened literally in the same practice--at the start, he couldn’t make it through the program without major errors. And then, just as we were about to kick him off the ice, he did one more run-through--and it was _perfect_.” Yuuri’s eyes glinted with astonishment. “No matter how many times I’ve seen it happen, it still amazes me.”

Simply watching Yuri’s performances was amazing unto itself. Otabek had not considered this part of his friend’s skating before: it seemed impossible that Yuri’s programs could ever been less than perfect, much less as messy as Yuuri claimed. Yet as Otabek’s body began to settle into the choreography, he was beginning to understand--

“Anyway. Take it from the top, and let’s see more of that sensuality!” Yuuri emphasized the word _sensuality_ with a suggestive wiggle of his hips, counted to three, then began the music.

Otabek took a step back. Yuuri’s unconventional choreography opened with a stylized shrug that became a traditional Kazakh arm pose combined with a stylized prance to gain momentum before settling into a simple series of steps and lunges--all intended to be performed completely _backwards_ on the ice for three measures. Otabek swung his left leg out and back, letting his hips follow as he found his balance. After three more rearward steps, he brought his ankles together, then abruptly tossed his momentum forward and shifted his weight to his right leg.

This time, he barely faltered. As he danced, Otabek began to see how this would be possible on the ice--which part of his blade he’d use, how to use his arms to counterbalance the additional momentum from the ice.

“Bravo, Otabek! Your understanding of sensuality has certainly been coming along quite quickly since you came to visit Yuri...” Katsuki’s eyes glinted with humor, and Otabek cringed and rolled his eyes. Katsuki, of course, did not bother to acknowledge the grimace, only forced Otabek to practice synchronizing his upper and lower body movements by having him repeat movements of the dance countless times.

A few repetitions later, Viktor popped his head into the studio door. “You’re on ice in five, Otabek!” he called, stepping into the mirrored room.

Yuuri, the libertine, popped his booty more quickly the glanced over his shoulder to greet his husband. “Viktor! There you are!”

Viktor sidled up to his husband, running a hungry hand over Yuri’s flank as his ample ass shook.

Otabek make a low gagging sound in his throat. “Guys. I’m right here.”

Yuuri continued grinding on Viktor, popping one buttcheek at a time, perfectly nonplussed.

“Doesn’t he sound just like Yurio?” Viktor teased, still groping his husband.

Otabek rolled his eyes. Every time he thought Viktor and Yuuri might not be as bad as Yuri complained they were--they got worse. He left without a word to put on his skates and avoid seeing anything more traumatizing than what he’d seen already. 

Though strangely enough, Yuuri had been right: Otabek was able to complete his modified step sequence on skates for the first time without falling. Though the choreography was still rough, Otabek’s body and the music somehow flowed together on the ice for the very first time.

 

 

Back at the apartment after his grueling session with Dmitriy, Yuri opened the jewelry box. A tinny melody played as a chipped porcelain ballerina spun. He rummaged gently through the many drawers of the jewelry box and the seemingly random collection of items it contained: skate programs, paper photographs, his late cat Sasha’s pink leather studded collar.

He’d never allowed himself to keep very much. All the two decades of his past he’d bothered to take with him from the old apartment fit inside the small wooden chest--well, this and the hideous green couch. But, still--here were all the relics of his past, all contained neatly in a small and weathered wooden chest.

Yuri rifled through the contents of the chest, trying not to get caught up in nostalgia with each object his fingertips brushed. These trinkets were everything he has left of his mother, anyway: three pieces of jewelry and a handful of yellowing photographs. He didn’t take after her, nor her father... She’d had the same kind of mousy brown hair Grandpa had had before he’d gone grey; the only thing he’d gotten from them had been his green eyes. With his fair skin and hair and his slender build, Yuri knew he resembled his invisible father more than he resembled anyone in his family, knew that every time they looked at him, they saw reminders of the man who’d knocked his mother up and run.

Alyona had been young, only seventeen, when Yuri had been born. His father had been a  few years older, in his early twenties, but he’d skipped town months before Yuri’s birth, gone with the end of the harvest. Yuri had never been quite able to ascertain his name, but not knowing his father was somehow less painful than having known his mother, yet losing her anyway.

Yuri had loved his mother the best that he was able, but he’d never really _had_ her. The drink had gotten to her first. His first memories, of those early years on their own, before they’d finally moved in with her father, went like this: trying to wake his mother up, crying and kicking her unresponsive vodka-soaked body on more than one morning, just a toddler himself...

Finally, Yuri found what he’d been looking for: the yellowed and folded index card marked with his grandfather’s deliberate Cyrillic script that spelt out the ingredients for katsudon pirozhki--flour, milk, salt, oil, eggs, all of it.

Katsudon pirozhki was Yuri’s special family dish, the one he only made for the people who were closer to him than anyone else. He’d been surprised himself to realize that somehow, in six years of friendship, he’d never made his katsudon pirozhki for Otabek. Certainly he’d made his special pirozhki for his best friend before, Yuri had thought, but when he raked his memory through all the meals they’d cooked together over the years, the katsudon pirozhki were nowhere to be found.

Well. He couldn’t make up for the past, but he could certainly change the present. Carefully, he placed the recipe card into his back pocket, then replaced his mother’s trinkets in the jewelry box. He did not often get the chance to handle his family heirlooms, meager as they might have been: two Cyrillic cross earrings set with a cloudy stone, a matching pendant, and a gold cat-shaped pin, set with a single emerald for an eye, its clasp long since broken.

Yuri took the meat from the fridge to warm up while he gathered the ingredients for the dough. He’d have to let the dough rise while he cooked the filling... On the kitchen table, he made a volcano out of the flour just as his grandfather had taught him to do, carefully pouring the milk and the cracked eggs into the crater. Carefully, Yuri began to mix the dough from the center out, slowly, so he did not collapse the wall of flour and let the milk and egg mixture spill everywhere.

It was strange, to make the dough for pirozhki by himself. Even more than two years after his death, Yuri had still not gotten used to Nikolai’s absence in moments like this--he half-expected to see his grandfather’s hairy, work-worn hands carefully scooping flour into the liquid, cupping Yuri’s smaller, slender ones to guide him through the motions. Yuri could feel his grandfather’s strong shoulders against his own as he worked the slippery dough until it became elastic in his hands.  His grandfather had always told him that the reason his pirozhkis always tasted so good to Yuri was that he’d been thinking about Yuri the whole time he’d been making them, so he thought about Otabek as he kneaded the dough, until it finally began to stretch properly. 

Yuri wiped his hands on the towel he had tied to the side of his apron. He set it to rest in a covered bowl and turned toward the ingredients for the pork cutlet and began to prepare the katsudon filling. Yuri hummed to himself as he dredged and fried the pork cutlets, an abstract but pleasing melody as he recalled the first time Otabek had come to Hasetsu--Yuri had just turned sixteen, and was eager to show off his knowledge of Japan to his new friend, perhaps a bit too eager, to be honest. The first night of Otabek’s visit, Yuri had draped himself over Otabek’s shoulders and attempted to feed him katsudon with chopsticks and failing utterly as a drunken Viktor and _totally wasted_ Katsuki toasted to their friendship. Yuri sort of wanted to cringe at himself as he remembered the way he’d forced Otabek to wear matching tiger shirts the whole week, but somehow Otabek hadn’t seemed to mind Yuri’s aggressive style of friendship... And now, five years later, somehow, the possibility of something else. Something closer to home, closer to him.

 

 

When he arrived at the apartment from the rink, Otabek was greeted by a cacophony of smells. He dropped his skates and duffel on the floor then kicked off his shoes to join Yuri at the counter, which was heaped with huge piles of food. “What’s all this?”

Yuri hummed and tucked an errant strand of hair behind his ear with his wrist, careful to avoid getting flour in his hair. “Katsudon pirozhki.”

“Ah, so you finally decided you love me enough to make me your special pirozhki?” Otabek bumped Yuri gently with his shoulder.

“You _idiot._ It’s not special,” Yuri fumed. He did not kick Otabek though he wanted to. He wanted to kiss Otabek _hello_ but he did not do that either.

Otabek stepped back, watching Yuri twist a handful of dough and a handful of filling into a finished pirozhki. “Can I help?”

Without pausing, Yuri nodded. He rolled out two discs of dough, one for himself, one for Otabek. “Just a couple tablespoons of filling, ok? If you put too much, they’ll fall apart.”

Otabek mimicked him, putting a couple tablespoons of the rice and egg mixture. “Good. Now a piece of pork cutlet... Then this is the hard part.” Yuri did something neat and nimble with his fingers that Otabek was hopeless to replicate.

“Like this,” Yuri says, wrapping his fingers around Otabek’s gently to guide him through the motions of pinching the pirozhki into a perfect dumpling.

It took a few tries, but eventually Otabek picked it up. He and Yuri assembled the pirozhki, settling into a comfortable rhythm as they work their way through the mountain of dough and fillings before Yuri breaks the silence. “There’s a show tomorrow night. At Moloko, on Konyushennaya Ploschad.”

Moloko. One of St Petersburg’s trendier punk clubs. While it wasn’t exactly gritty--they had proper security, after all--the clientele was mostly nihilists, there was graffiti in the bathrooms, and everything smelled like day-old beer and clotted blood. It was decidedly more Yuri’s kind of scene than Otabek’s own.

“C’mon. We can dress crazy and drink a lot. The next day is an easy day for you, right? No gym or dance, just the session on ice?”

Otabek considered. Much as Yuri and the other skaters tease him about being an old man, it was truer than he wanted to admit. As much as he loved music, Otabek preferred to stay far away from large and drunken crowds--he found them claustrophobic, just like planes. That was precisely the reason he preferred to work a show rather than attend it: when Otabek was in the booth, he could get close to the music, but no one could get close to him...

Yuri watched Otabek considering the question. He knew his friend was weighing the pros and cons of the decision from each and every angle, and decided to help his friend along. “Carpathian Forest is playing,” Yuri said casually, though he knew exactly the response he’d get.

“Yuri, you buried the lead! You should have said before anything else.” Otabek loved that band, their dumb costumes and blatant Satanism, without irony. Though he had long since stopped attending many metal shows, Otabek tried to catch them each time they went on tour, determinedly facing his fear of crowds in order to enjoy the spectacle.

Yuri leaned in, awkwardly pressing his lips to Otabek’s cheek in a chaste peck then pulled away, shy like a naughty child waiting to be punished, but Otabek just nodded. He knew he too looked flushed and eager, although neither of them had had anything to drink tonight. The alcoholic haze of the last few days had faded to a lingering discomfort, almost a hangover but not quite, and the two of them had left the last beers in the fridge by unspoken mutual agreement.

Professional athletes drank a lot, sure, because they were tested regularly for all other drugs, but even then, sometimes you just had to take a day to let your liver recover. Still, Otabek wished for something that would make this easier... there was a lingering awkwardness between he and Yuri as they assembled the pirozhki, uncomfortable though they had been so close just a few hours earlier.... The pirozhki Otabek was assembling tore between his fingers. He’d overstuffed the filling, and a big hole tore down the middle of the pastry, scraps of rice and pork threatening to escape as he had attempted to fold it closed.

A floury hand reached for his own, carefully patching the busted pirozhki with a strip of pastry.

“Take me out to the show tomorrow,” Yuri half-demanded, then tried to sweeten the command by adding the word “Please.”

Yuri pouted for just a moment, at once so cocky and so vulnerable, so entirely himself that Otabek was overcome by a wave of longing. He wanted to reach for Yuri, nevermind that he was covered in flour up to his elbows, to smother him in kisses--was that a thing that Otabek could do, after last night and this morning? He knew he would indulge Yuri as he folded the dumpling shut and laid it on the silver pan, ready to be fried.

“Why are you asking me? It seems you’ve already got everything figured out.” Though the tone was sarcastic, Yuri could hear the affection tugging at the corner of Otabek’s mouth as he teased.

“OK, good. Because I bought tickets already,” Yuri admitted, swiping a flour-streaked thumb across his cheek to get his hair out of his eyes.

Without thinking, Otabek reached over to tuck the loose strand behind Yuri’s ear. When Yuri looked at him again, in the same bashful way he’d looked at Otabek after kissing his cheek so tenderly, Otabek kissed him on the forehead. “Your hands are all dirty,” was the only explanation he offered for the tender gesture.  

Yuri hummed, pinching off two pieces of dough and reaching for his rolling pin. “You want to put them together while I roll the dough?”

Otabek nodded, accepting the two small circles of dough Yuri handed him and scooping out a few spoonfuls of filling. They settled into an easy rhythm until all the pirozhki had been made.

 

 

An hour later, they settled onto Yuri’s awful couch with a movie and plateful of pirozhki. Otabek settled back onto the couch as he pressed _play_ on the remote--Yuri had teased him about it, but ultimately agreed to watch the third part of the Cold War documentary as he muttered a vague threat about winning a space race victory in Civ next time. Yuri’s exact words were somewhat muffled by the large bites of pirozhki he kept shoving into his mouth, but Otabek understood him all the same.

“These things are delicious, Yura, but they’re an awful lot of work,” Otabek said through a mouthful of pirozhki.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “I _know_.” Dizzy tried to sit on his lap to get between Yuri and his pirozhki, but he was too smart for her tricks and nudged her away. Unfortunately, Otabek fell for her every time, and offered the gently purring cat a morsel of pork.

The way Otabek smiled and allowed Dizzy to curl up in his lap made Yuri’s stomach tie itself into knots. Sure, he’d long ago noticed that Otabek was hot as shit with his compact yet powerful physique, but he liked the way the normally stoic man became soft and affectionate with animals.

Otabek noticed Yuri staring after a while. “You look just like your cat, you know.”

“I do _not_ ,” Yuri huffed at the very moment Dizzy chose to narrow her eyes and grumble, and he had to admit that perhaps Otabek had a point.

Otabek flashed him the same indulgent grin he’d given Yuri’s cat just a moment earlier. “You have the same expressions.” He broke off a morsel of the pastry in his hand, offering it to Yuri, who leaned forward without a thought to accept it with a flash of his incisors.

Yuri carefully moved the plate of leftover pirozhki to the coffee table, then inched forward to close the space between himself and Otabek.

“I thought about this all day,” Yuri breathed against his neck.

“Yura. I got you off this morning.” Otabek wriggled, his face stern but his lips pursed in amusement. He liked knowing that he had the power to reduce Yuri to this trembling and needy thing, and he shifted on Yuri’s lap, feeling the heat of him solid jerk against his ass.

“Doesn’t matter. Not enough.” Yuri tugged Otabek’s shirt over his head. “Never enough.” His fingertips settled at Otabek’s bare sides to push him down onto the bulge in his leggings, which was rapidly thickening.

Otabek chuckled into Yuri’s hair. “You’re worse than they are.” He didn’t have to tell Yuri who he’d meant by _they,_ and it made him to chuckle, the way Yuri’s eyes narrowed, glinting hard and green like emeralds. He brought his hands up to push Yuri’s bangs out of his face. “But only when it’s like this. When no one can hear you but me.”

Yuri shivered. “Yes.” Like this, with Otabek on his lap, they were face-to-face. He leaned in to press their lips together as Otabek’s hands bunched up the hem of his shirt. His fingernails scratched the skin just above the waistband of his leggings, where his stomach was gently bulged from the six pirozchki he’d eaten, and Yuri’s dick pulsed against Otabek’s thigh. He sighed, and pushed his hips forward, pressing up against the warmth of Otabek’s skin.

One of Yuri’s hands slipped up the inside of Otabek’s thigh, nudging his heavy balls aside as he searched for the sensitive whorl of skin at Otabek’s rim through his loose sweats. But Otabek slid back on Yuri’s thighs.

“Too much...?” Yuri asked.

Otabek shook his head. His eyes, always dark and unfathomable, had gone jet-black, nearly all pupil. “Not here,” he murmured. “Take me to your bed, Yuri.” When Yuri went still, shocked senseless at the demand, Otabek continued with a voice gone dark and hoarse: “Your couch is evil, Yura. I want to make you feel good, not give you spine cramps.”

The little tease was just what Yuri needed to get to his feet. He stood up, pressing his face and Otabek’s together to swallow his tongue in an opened-mouth kiss as his hands snaked back to press into the dip of Otabek’s lower back, just barely caressing the swell of his ass as their tongues mingled in his mouth.

Somehow they managed to find their way to the bedroom like this, Yuri’s arms wrapped around Otabek’s waist, their lower bodies dragging against each other as they made their way down the hall. Yuri would have been content to have him anywhere, as long as it could just be _now_ ; Otabek had certainly always been the more patient of the two and managed keep control until he pushed Yuri up against the mattress.

When the corner of the mattress hit Yuri behind the knees, he sat back on it as if by reflex. Otabek made a pleased sound in his throat, then kneeled in front of where Yuri lay sprawled back to take his leggings off. As soon as he pushed the waistband down, Yuri’s hard cock lurched out into the room, and Otabek made a needy sound--Yuri’s cock was blushing and beautiful when he was aroused.

What Otabek said next surprised them both: “Let me suck you.” The words were thick and full of need, Otabek could taste the shape of them as he spoke. “Let me suck you... I want to taste....”

Yuri grabbed the base of his own dick, and squeezed. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last...” He was already nearing the edge, after nothing more than several minutes of enthusiastic kissing and dry humping.

“Then you suck me first.” Otabek shifted his grip from Yuri’s cock to trail his fingertips against his own furry stomach then grasp his dick at the base. It twitched, and Yuri’s mouth watered--he was such a fucking _cliche_ , but it didn’t matter. He moaned, and the excess saliva in his mouth made a gurgling sound as he leaned back against the headboard.

Otabek began to slide his ass up Yuri’s stomach and chest, his thick cock bobbing as he moved. His hips hovering over Yuri’s shoulders, Otabek gripped the headboard from the top, to slide into Yuri’s open and waiting mouth. The pooling saliva slicked the very tip, where the purpling head had begun to poke through the foreskin.  

Yuri held his jaw open and slack, letting Otabek rut between his tongue and the roof of his mouth for a minute before pulling back until he held just the head of Otabek’s dick in his mouth. He wrapped his hand around the exposed length of shaft, and began to stroke firmly as he licked around the head in slow sloppy circles.

Otabek groaned, and he throbbed in Yuri’s grip, obviously enjoying the teasing sensation of Yuri’s tongue at the head of his dick as he was jerked off. Yuri took this as encouragement, and he leaned forward until his lips met his stroking hand, increasing the suction as he breathed through his nose and pursed his lips around Otabek’s shaft.

Above him, Otabek leaned forward, resting more of his weight on the headboard as he knelt over Yuri’s mouth. His thighs were trembling with the effort it was taking to restrain himself from thrusting as Yuri worked the first few inches of his cock in and out of his wet mouth. Otabek watched his thin pink lips clenched tight as saliva leaked onto the purpling skin of his own erection. “Yuri,” Otabek said, but it sounded like a sob.

Without warning, one of Yuri’s hands grabbed his asscheek, and Yuri swallowed more of him with a great greedy gulp. Otabek moaned, rolling his hips up just enough to scrape his cockhead along the ridged roof of Yuri’s mouth. He was so turned on he was sure that he was leaking into Yuri’s mouth, but Yuri didn’t seem to be complaining, if the satisfied noises escaping from between mouthfuls of Otabek were anything to go by--

Otabek thrusted shallowly, just barely pushing himself a little further into Yuri’s waiting mouth, trying to relieve the pressure in his cock while at the same time draw it out as long as possible. As intense as the pleasure was, Otabek knew it would have to end soon, and when Yuri used the hands on Otabek’s ass for leverage, Otabek gave into to his instinct and began to fuck Yuri’s mouth shallowly.

Yuri gazed up at him, eyes glassy and starting to tear a bit, his lips shining with a slick of saliva and precome as their gazes locked. Otabek stuttered out a warning--”I’m coming, oh _fuck_ , I’m coming--” and Yuri slid back until just the head remained between his pinkened and puffy lips. He lazily tongued Otabek’s frenulum as the cum spewing from the spurting cock in his coated his tongue, bittersweet but enticing all the same. It wasn’t until Otabek gripped his hair and pulled him off his softening cock that Yuri realized he’d been fisting his cock as he’d swallowed Otabek’s orgasm.

Yuri wiped his mouth, watching Otabek as he reached his right hand down to join his left where it was already enthusiastically stroking his own dick, which he’d been teasing intermittently as he’d sucked Otabek off. Fuck, Otabek looked so good like this, pleasure-struck from the force with which Yuri had made him come...

“You’re good at that, Yura,” Otabek breathed, reaching out to still Yuri’s wrists with his broad hand to keep him from touching himself.

“Please, Beka. I have to come--” Yuri bucked his hips, and Otabek twisted his wrist right at the head, making him whine.

Otabek grinned and pushed Yuri back on the mattress, his body weight heavy enough to pin Yuri and keep him from struggling. “My turn.” He leaned his mouth down to Yuri’s cock and took him inside with one deep swallow, confidently hollowing his cheeks around the girth of Yuri’s penis while stroking the shaft with the flat of his tongue.

The blood pounded in Yuri’s ears and muted the greedy slurping sound of Otabek’s mouth sliding up and down on his cock. Sure, Yuri’d had his dick sucked by capable partners before, plenty of times, but he’s never felt anything like this--he groaned and boxed at Otabek’s ears, gently, which earned him a playful swat on the balls. _Beka’s ears are sensitive,_ he thought to himself, filing away the information for later, when Otabek slid his hand back from the base of Yuri’s cock to caress his balls, then slowly swallowed his shaft until his nose was just ghosting against the thick triangle of blonde pubes between Yuri’s legs. Yuri leaned forward, bucking just a bit, but it was beyond his control--Otabek’s mouth so hot, and so wet and so welcoming--

In warning, Otabek’s thick forearm slung against his hips to hold him down, and Yuri keened. He had intended to take his time, but Yuri’s cock gushed another stream of precum into his mouth and he knew Yuri would not be able to last much longer. _Fuck, he’s this close just from sucking me-_ -Otabek moaned at the thought and Yuri cried out from the sensation as the wet tight throat around him vibrating around the head of his dick.... Another flick of that devilish tongue, and it was all over, without warning. Yuri tried to say something, but the only words he’d been capable of forming were useless.

In surprise, Otabek let Yuri’s cock drop from his mouth. The first spurt of cum stained his lower lip and chin before he opened wide and sucked the tip between his teeth, drinking Yuri down greedily until Yuri tangled his long thin fingers in Otabek’s coarse black hair and yanked his head away with a groan as his cock twitched uselessly between his legs, spent and oversensitive.

He licked himself from Otabek’s jaw and shoulder, where his cock had spilled in thick wet streaks. Otabek muttered to himself, amused as he watched Yuri’s nimble pink tongue lap up the thick liquid. He grumbled, making a sound that was almost a purr.

Yuri put an arm around his waist and arranged himself around Otabek’s shoulders and the pillows.

“Hey. We’re gonna get stuck if we don’t clean up.” Otabek prodded at him, but Yuri ignored him, choosing instead to nuzzle Otabek's throat with his long nose.  _You like this_ , Otabek understood, and thought,  _Oh_ _Yuri, you're so dirty._

“Don’t care. Don’t go anywhere.” If anything, Yuri grasped him even more aggressively. Otabek prefered to settle into his embrace rather than fight him, lest Yuri decided to use his fingernails to his advantage and convince Otabek to stay.

He had planned to just hold Yuri until he’d gone to sleep, then sneak away to the bathroom to get something to clean up with. Yet for some reason, Otabek had been unable to disengage himself from Yuri’s warm limbs--even after his face had gone slack with sleep, Otabek remained anchored under the weight of Yuri’s head and shoulders, which insisted on using Otabek’s chest as a pillow, the sweat and semen that streaked the skin beneath his cheek be damned.

Tentatively, Otabek raised his hand to Yuri’s hair. He’d expected the blonde strands to slide through his fingers easily, like cornsilk, but they were tangled and wild like horsehair, catching on Otabek’s knuckles. Carefully, he raked his fingers through the worst of the tangles, separating the strands of Yuri’s hair from where they’d snarled together. His yellow hair shone like white gold in the darkness as Otabek’s fingers wound it into a braid.

With hesitant hands, Otabek tucked the finished braid behind Yuri’s ear, then reached down to press a kiss to Yuri’s wrist, just below the fleshy part at the base of his tumb. He wrapped his fingers around Yuri’s own, sealing the kiss between their palms before arranging their intertwined hands to press against his ribcage, heavy over his heart where they rested all night long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope the two sex scenes didn't come off as gratuitous, but i wanted to capture that early-relationship phase when new lovers can't keep their hands off each other. also, i like writing filth, although yuri's Foot Thing is a new low, even for me, and i'm pretty terrible.
> 
> you know the muse is a thirsty slut, so keep the comments coming and eventually the muse will come too!


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've got 3 wips, but don't worry, i haven't forgotten about adonis! this story will get done, but updates are likely to be every 3-4 weeks as i bounce around from fic to fic. 
> 
> singlim, singli: little sister  
> agham, agha: older brother  
> sheshe: mother

They were walking down the longest hallway Yuri had ever seen in his life, Otabek at his elbow and lagging half a step behind. He was unable to keep pace with Yuri’s lanky legs as they stepped cautiously into the surrounding shadows.

Wherever they were, it was dark and full of innumerable sounds that hinted at something unseen. Yuri knew there was something hunting them, although he didn’t know why, only that they had to get _away_ , and fast, and that they weren’t fast enough yet they couldn’t move any faster.

Gradually, Yuri’s eyes began to adjust to the dark. Indistinct dim shapes lurked in the shadows. Something seemed to draw closer; though Yuri could not see what it was, he heard the heavy shuffling sound, and ran faster, Otabek at his side panting with the effort of keeping up.

They reached the end of the corridor. Yuri nudged at the door. It creaked open to reveal a stairwell. Yuri hesitated. The stairs might be locked--they might not be able to escape--

Yet from behind him, there was a snarl in the darkness. He tightened his grip on Otabek’s forearm, and ran up the stairs. He heard the heavy breathing, felt the damp and stale breath on his neck. Whatever was pursuing them had drawn closer.

Yuri jumped onto the landing, and behind him, Otabek tripped. In slow motion Yuri saw it happen--Otabek’s fingers slipped through his grip, and Yuri let go. Whatever had been lurking in the darkness claimed him, and Yuri knew if he did not keep running, whatever had gotten Otabek would get him too.

So Yuri filled his lungs with air, and took the stairs two at a time.

The stairwell let him out into a room with windows on every wall looking out into the night, a dead end. He locked the door, watching the darkness. For what, Yuri did not know, yet he knew he would know it when he found it.

A flicker of something pale caught his notice: on the opposite wall of the room hung a huge glass mirror, reflecting the blue walls and an indistinct pale smear. He lifted his arm, and the pale figure in the glass mimicked him; a yellow blur flashed in the reflection, and Yuri stepped closer for a clearer look.

As he approached the mirror, he noticed something about the blond figure on the other side of the glass: instead of getting closer, it was getting further away.

Yuri opened his mouth to scream--

And gasped himself awake.

He was lying in his bed when he came to, the sheets a tangled mess around his legs. There were no half-decaying buildings, no shadows chasing him in the dark. The room was empty save for a few pieces of clothing scattered haphazardly on the floor.

The adrenaline from his dream still pumped through Yuri’s veins as he looked around the room, getting his bearings. The sheets had been kicked to the corner of the bed during his nightmare, and there was no evidence of either of his cats in the room, which was unusual....

Neither was there any sign of Otabek. Yuri’s heart rate, which had begun to slow upon waking from his nightmare, peaked. It pounded against his chest as he quickly searched the room for a sign of Otabek’s presence, but all he could find was a pile of discarded clothing.

Yuri dragged himself out of bed on shaking legs. He raced out of the room and down the corridor, panicking--

And nearly ran into Otabek, who was seated on the armchair, reading his biography on Vladimir Putin and drinking coffee so overboiled Yuri could taste the bitterness that wafted off of it like steam.

Yuri skidded to a stop, feeling slightly ridiculous for having panicked. “Oh. You’re... here,” he said in a small voice. The words wheezed out of his windpipe, which was still swollen with anxiety.

Otabek put his book and coffee on the table, looking at him quizzically. “Where else would I be?”

Yuri collapsed dramatically onto Otabek’s lap, long legs hung comically over the side of the chair. “I don’t know. Gone.” He waved his hand abstractly, but the casual gesture was at odds with the tightness in his voice.

“Hey. There’s still four days left before my flight,” Otabek reminded him. He brushed his fingers over Yuri’s scalp, and watched as his friend began to relax into the touch. Something in him ached to see the way Yuri became pliant at his fingertips; he was the kind of cat that rarely retracted its claws.

“Good.” Yuri nuzzled him like one of his overly affectionate ragdolls, just brushing his whiskers against Otabek’s cheeks.

Otabek nudged him with his shoulder. “You need to shave.”

“Nah. You like it.” Yuri made a soft rumbling sound, something like a purr, as he continued to rub his face against Otabek’s.

“You are so gross, dude.” Otabek mumbled the words into Yuri’s hair with his forehead resting against his scalp, but they were affectionate. “I woke up early because you were stuck to my chest.” He closed his eyes, remembering how decadent Yuri has looked, asleep and striped with Otabek’s dried cum. He stuttered. “H-Had to take a shower and clean you up, then the cats made a mess....”

“The cats?” Yuri rubbed his eyes as he tried to make sense of whatever the fuck Otabek was trying to say.

“Yeah, um, we forgot about the pirozhki last night. In the living room...”

“Fuck.” Those pirozhki had been way too much work to become cat food.

“Don’t worry, there’s still a few left,” Otabek assured him. He’d been able to salvage a half-dozen pastries that seemed to have not been gnawed by Yuri’s spoiled cats. “Though they might have fur in them, a little bit.”

“Gross.” Yuri returned to nuzzling his throat, clingy and cute. As much shit as Yuri talked about how Viktor clung to Katsuki, he was doing the same to Otabek. For his part, Otabek indulged him, though Yuri’s stubble bristled at his skin and something else bristled beneath it. He chose to ignore it for the moment, instead cradling Yuri in his arms.

The silence between them stretched, and Otabek tried to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say. Most of the time, Yuri talked enough for the two of them, and he found he had no idea how to fill the silence, had no idea which words would help him. Otabek’s mouth clicked closed audibly as he swallowed.

“Beka?” Yuri’s voice was small and childlike, interrupting his contemplation.

“Yeah?”

His eyes half-closed, his lips slightly pursed, Yuri asked, “You are going to kiss me, right?

Otabek looked down him, then leaned in slowly, lips parted slightly. However, instead of kissing him, Otabek pinched the tip of Yuri’s long nose between his teeth.

“Beka. Do it _right_ this time,” Yuri demanded, and Otabek laughed and did just that.

“C’mon, get up. I made coffee.” He patted Yuri’s ass and shifted him off of his lap.

Yuri took a sip from Otabek’s cup and sneered. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Too late. I already did. You have to drink it.”

Yuri cringed. “That’s what you think.”

Otabek laughed as he watched Yuri stride to the kitchen, muttering abuse about hopeless assholes who couldn’t even brew a proper cup of coffee, the itchy feeling under his skin forgotten for the moment.

 

 

It had been a grueling practice. Though his new short program was coming together, Otabek had still fallen several times as he attempted to master the complicated choreography Yuuri had prepared for him, and he was thankful when Viktor called for a break.

No sooner had Otabek stepped off the ice then his phone vibrated from where he’d left it on the bench. He threw his towel over his shoulder and answered the incoming video call.

“Beka!” His seventeen year old sister Zhanar was waving enthusiastically at the screen, a red scarf covering her hair.

“Zhanar, _singlim_... What’s new?”

“Nothing, _agham_. “

“Oh? So you and Dastan haven’t been driving _sheshe_ crazy?”

Zhanar rolled her eyes at him. “You know she’s the one driving _us_ crazy if anything.”

Otabek smiled and shook his head. “She’s still giving you a hard time over the 3 you got in chemistry, huh?”

“Ugh, you’re as bad as she is. I’m doing better now... I got a 4 on the last test.” Zhanar wagged her finger at him, scolding her brother for his nagging. “Whatever. School’s still stupid.”

“You sound like Yuri,” Otabek said affectionately. Yuri had always complained about his tutors, insisting everything _not_ related to skating was a waste of time. Zhanar, of course, had no such excuse; Otabek suspected she was just bored. While her school was well-regarded, Zhanar made good marks without even trying, leaving her plenty of time for daydreaming or mischief.

However, at the mention of Yuri’s name, Zhanar perked up. “How _is_ Yuri?”

Otabek shrugged and wiped an errant drop of sweat from his brow. “He’s doing OK. The ankle seems to be healing... Viktor’s got him on this crazy gym routine. I tried to work out with him last week and I could barely move the next day...” He continued talking about his visit thus far. Zhanar was looking at him intently, and Otabek joked to break the mood, afraid he’d given too much away. “Still angry about not being allowed to skate though.”

“He’s usually angry about something though, isn’t he? I mean, whenever you guys Skype, he’s always... yelling.”

Otabek’s shoulders shook with his silent laugh. It was true--Yuri’s default emotion was anger. “It’s OK, _singlim_. I mean... you’re not wrong.”

When he looked back at the screen, Zhanar was staring back at him, a contemplative look on her face. “You two are really close.”

He swallowed and tasted Yuri on his tongue. “Yes.” Anything else would be a lie.

Zhanar was still looking straight at the screen. “You know, Mom asked about him.”

“What did she want to know?”

His sister shrugged. “Normal stuff. Like how long you two have been... friends.” The word hung between them ominously, full of meaning.

“Oh. What did you tell her?”

“What am I supposed to say to her, Beka?” Zhanar’s voice broke a bit.

His fingers worried at his cuticles, which were dry and cracked. “I... I don’t know.”

“The way you talk about him, Beka... I wonder--”

Otabek drew a deep breath. “Zhani, I--I wish I knew.” This thing between he and Yuri--he still didn’t know what they were. Nothing between them had changed, after all--they still spent all their time together, trash-talking and drinking beer, except now they touched each other’s dicks sometimes. Right? At least neither he nor Yuri had said otherwise. _Better to have half of him than none at all_ . Otabek tightened his lips around the traitorous phrase that thudded in his heart: _Better to have half of him than none at all._

Zhanar’s face was wide and sad when Otabek was finally able to look her in the eyes. “ _Sheshe_ is the way she is. But have a little faith in the rest of us, OK?”   

Otabek nodded, but still did not speak. Around him, the chatter at the sidelines of the rink echoed awkwardly.

Finally, his little sister took mercy on him and changed the subject. “Dastan got into trouble again.”

“What did he do this time....?”

“He snuck a goat onto the roof of the school--”

“What!”

She snickered. “Oh, Beka, it was so funny...”

As she told the story, Otabek couldn’t help but laugh along with her retelling of the tale. She had the hereditary Altin dark horse humor, that was for sure... but Dastan had them all beat. The goat was only the latest stunt in a long string of pranks, though certainly the first that for which he’d received a suspension.

“He’s suspended for a week and grounded for two. But Otabek, it was so worth it...”

“Dastan will either end up a comedian or a delinquent, there’s no in between for him.”

“Ah, but who’s the big brother that’s been setting a bad example for him all these years?” Zhanar’s dark eyes shone impishly. That hereditary Altin dark horse humor, indeed.

They chatted a few minutes more, Zhanar filling him in on the local gossip he was missing. Finally, Viktor’s voice called out across the ice, signalling the end of Otabek’s break.

“Goodbye, Zhani! Give the family my love,” Otabek said with a small wave.

“You should call _sheshe_ and Papa, Beka,” Zhanar said. “They worry about you when you’re away, you know?”

Otabek nodded. “I know.”

His sister made an exaggerated kissy-face and Otabek forced himself to crack a smile.

When she spoke, her voice was as quiet as it was heavy. “I love you, agha, no matter what. Send my love to Yuri too.”

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Otabek looked his sister in the eye. “I will.”

Zhanar blew him another kiss, then hung up the call. Otabek spent a moment looking at his own reflection in the black screen, his fingers tight around the phone.

“Altin! Break ended three minutes ago!” Viktor’s voice brought him back to reality.

Otabek put his phone in his backpack, then kicked off his skate guards, and headed back to the rink. No matter how many times Viktor demanded he repeat his free skate, however, he couldn’t forget the way Zhanar had looked at him as she’d asked him to have a little faith.

Faith, however, was one thing Otabek had never had much of. He was a bad Muslim--sure, most Kazakh Muslims drank like hell, but Otabek had had a hell of a lot of extramarital sodomy, and he’d never been particularly obedient. His mother, however, clung to her faith. She had raised his siblings to observe all the high holidays and attend mosque weekly, and while the years spent training abroad in America and Canada had not only made Otabek a better skater, they’d also made him less pious.

His mother still invited him to services whenever he was home, but each time, Otabek made his excuses. She no longer pushed, but he still felt the weight of her disapproval from the way she would purse her lips and nod patiently as he excused himself once again.

At least she no longer prefaced her invitations with the explanation that he could find a good Muslim woman to settle down and have a family with. He supposed he should be thankful for her tacit acknowledgment of his queerness, at least, but then again, she never asked about his boyfriends, and Otabek never told. Perhaps he’d never before had a partner with whom he could see himself building a future, building a life--but Yuri was different.

Ever since they’d reconnected in Barcelona at the Grand Prix Final six years ago, Yuri had been a constant in Otabek’s life. This--this _thing_ between them was still new, so new Otabek did not yet have a name for what they were to each other, but he was anxious to have Yuri visit him in Almaty all the same. And when Yuri came to visit, Otabek wanted to show him _his_ Almaty, of which his family was a large part....

He leaned into a camel spin as he considered. He’d always done his best thinking on the ice, yet all he felt was lightheaded. One thing was certain: Otabek couldn’t bring Yuri home to feast on Eid, couldn’t bring him to Zhanar’s graduation or watch Dastan play the fool in his school’s production of King Lear, and the thought made him nauseous as he exited the spin and transitioned into a combination jump.

There were so many places in Almaty he could not bring Yuri, not unless he knew his family would accept him. As much as he wanted to believe they could, he could not help the nagging sense of doubt that they would not...

The doubt made him hesitate as he took off into a triple axel, the final jump in the combo. He knew the moment he was airborne that something was wrong, and he hit the ice hard.

Viktor ran to his side to help him up. “You OK?” he asked, his blue eyes brimming with concern.

Otabek winced, rubbing his hip where he’d landed. “Just thinking,” he said, unable to look Viktor in the eyes lest he realize exactly where his thoughts had been. Viktor and Yuuri might have had their suspicions, but so far, neither he nor Yuri had told them anything.

Viktor, thankfully, didn’t ask. “Save your thoughts for off the ice,” he warned. “It’s less dangerous that way.”

Otabek nodded, and took his free skate from the top, one more time.

 

 

Back at the apartment, Yuri shook the last of the water from his hair. Droplets sprayed the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door, but he paid the, no mind as he contemplated his options.  A riot of neon and animal print was laid out in front of him, and he absentmindedly shuffled through his options. They were going to see Carpathian Forest play tonight, and he wanted to wear something that make it impossible for Otabek to look at anyone else all night long.

Yuri thought back to Katsuki’s breakout year, the year he’d taken the Grand Prix silver under Viktor’s tutelage. _Don’t take your eyes off of me,_ he’d told Viktor every time he’d skated _Eros_ ; at the time, Yuri had mocked the Katsudon for being so incredibly _needy--_ Viktor was always looking at him all the time anyway, so why would it matter if he was watching or not?

Yet Yuri now understood what Katsuki meant. Tonight, Yuri wanted to captivate Otabek completely, wanted Otabek to be unable to look away from him, not for a moment; no matter how many people there were in the audience, no matter how awesome the band or how unruly the crowd became, he wanted Otabek to see only _him_.

Yuri’s blood sang with it, with the heat of knowing that he could make a man as inscrutable as Otabek utterly desperate for him.... His cheeks burned as remembered last night, the way Otabek had looked as he had come apart in Yuri’s mouth, how all the solid muscle of him had gone weak and trembling at Yuri’s touch, and was half-drunk already on the power he had to make a man like Otabek, so strong and stoic, into something so needy. It made Yuri feel like an animal on the prowl: primal, all senses heightened. He could feel that power in his muscles, drawn tight like springs and about to pounce.

He let the towel he had wrapped around his waist fall to the floor without ceremony and assessed his naked form in the mirror. It had certainly been a while since he’d looked at himself like this, and though he was still slender, Yuri was surprised to see the new muscle straining at the skin in his thighs and shoulders. Viktor and Dmitriy’s sadistic workouts were paying off, he had to admit....

Too many people had looked at Yuri in his life and seen only his fine features, his slight build, his long thin waist, and mistaken him for something weak or delicate. Yet Otabek had always seen him for what he was--the soldier with eyes the color of army blankets, a weapon, a finely honed thing, cunning and deadly despite its subtlety.

Otabek had told him as much, many, many times, from that very first meeting in Barcelona all those years ago. Yuri had scoffed, asking _Me? A soldier?_ in disbelief; it had taken Yuri a long time to believe it too. Perhaps he’d never quite believed until this moment, when finally his body had begun to match the image of himself Yuri had in his head.

He tore his gaze from the mirror, and began shuffling through the his closet. Eventually he selected a pair of high-waisted leather pants and a tiger-striped crop top that exposed a sliver of his torso at his bellybutton. _Don’t take your eyes off of me,_ he thought, raising himself onto his tiptoes as he spun into a _fouette_.

Satisfied with the effect, Yuri closed the closet door, and made his way back to the bathroom to apply his makeup and fix his hair, which clung to his back in a tangled, wet clump. That was how Otabek found him, hair pulled back into a messy bun leaning close to the mirror as he cursed his inability to apply eyeliner evenly.

Otabek stood just outside the bathroom door, watching Yuri concentrate on getting his wings even. He stood, silently observing Yuri’s ritual for a minute or two, before clearing his throat. Yuri, startled, dropped his eyeliner into the sink.

“Fuck, Beka, you scared me!”

Otabek grinned and sidled into the narrow bathroom, letting his body rub up against Yuri’s backside suggestively. “You don’t mind if I shower, do you?”

Yuri sighed. “Give me a minute to finish this shit before you get the bathroom all steamed up.”

“Fair enough.” Otabek did not, however, leave the bathroom, preferring instead to watch Yuri glam himself up.

He’d seen Yuri apply makeup before--before countless competitions and exhibitions, but somehow this was different. Yuri wasn’t putting on his face for a crowd, or for the photographers, but for _Otabek_ , and it made something inside of him clench, made him want to grab Yuri and put his hands all over him, make his makeup sweat and smear.

Instead, Otabek reached for Yuri’s phone where it rested on the counter, and shuffled through his music app to keep his hands busy. “Yuri, why do you have so many remixes of ‘The Theme of King JJ’?”

Yuri was somehow able to continue applying the liner as he spoke. “It’s a fucking good song.”

“It’s a terrible song. All JJ’s songs are terrible.”

“You only hate JJ’s music so much because you think it’s _mainstream_.”

Otabek hummed. It was neither a confirmation nor a denial.

“You’re such a hipster.”

Otabek was not deterred by the growl in Yuri’s voice. He drew closer, unravelling Yuri’s shoulder-length hair from the bun on his head. The golden strands fell around his face, softening his angular features. “You shaved.” He changed the subject and rubbed his face against Yuri’s smooth cheek, so different from the stubble that had scratched at him this morning. “You’re beautiful like this, you know.”

“I wasn’t beautiful all stubbly?” Yuri pouted, putting down the eyeliner and assessing himself in the mirror.

“I like you both ways.” It was true: Otabek liked Yuri’s tight leather pants, his tiny crop top in his signature animal print, his smooth skin and dramatic eye makeup. But he also loved the coarser, more masculine side of Yuri--loved that he could do both, and look so good.

“Come here,” he said, snaking his hands behind Yuri’s back to hold him from behind in front of the bathroom mirror. “Can’t you see how we look together?”

Their reflections looked back at them. They _did_ look good together: Yuri’s graceful beauty and his long, pale form a pleasing contrast to Otabek solid, shorter build and darker coloring. Yuri’s eyes met his in the mirror, and Otabek brushed his lips against Yuri’s long neck, openmouthed and hungry.

Yuri swatted him away. “Stop distracting me and take a shower already. We’re gonna have to leave soon if we want to catch the opening band.”

Otabek shrugged and did just that, but not before stealing another kiss.

 

 

They arrived at Moloko just before 8. The doors were not yet open, and Yuri leaned over Otabek’s shoulders as they stood in line at the venue. His blond hair tickled Otabek’s neck as he pressed their faces together in a gesture that could not possibly be mistaken for platonic.

As friends, they’d often touched: a hand on a bicep, an arm slung casually around a shoulder. Yet Yuri’s hot hand on Otabek’s lower back burned like a brand. Somehow, on the sidewalk in front of the Moloko, Otabek felt as though the whole city were watching. This was more than a gesture, it was a claim, the kind of touch that was far too intimate in public....

Otabek startled. He’d never been one for public displays of affection, had rarely touched any of his exes in public beyond an awkward side hug. As the Hero of Kazakhstan, one of the few Kazakh athletes to have medaled in the Olympics in _any_ sport, Otabek was under intense scrutiny by the national media. Yuri’s embrace was making him uneasy; it made him recall his conversation with his sister and the miasma of thoughts that had distracted him during practice.

As much as Yuri made fun of Katsudon and Viktor’s gratuitous displays of affection, Otabek had assumed that Yuri would share his distaste for PDA, but the intimacy they’d shared the last couple of nights seemed to unleash something in Yuri. He was as affectionate as his needy cats--or even, God forbid, the international figure skating power couple that Yuri loved to mock so much.

Well. He took that back--there was no way anyone could be as awful as the Katsuki-Nikiforov couple. But Yuri’s clinginess, the way his behavior had become so openly possessive so soon after they’d begun... fooling around... was nevertheless surprising.

The line lurched forward a few feet, and Otabek took the opportunity to put some space between Yuri’s hips and his own, though Yuri insisted on resting a possessive hand on Otabek’s back. Otabek held his breath for a moment, feeling a sudden surge of resentment at the claiming hand.

This thing--whatever it was--was too new, too raw; Otabek did not want to share it with anyone. Perhaps that made him selfish, wanting to keep Yuri to himself like this, but he did not care... He shrugged himself out of Yuri’s embrace. Yuri gave him a questioning look, but before he could say anything, the venue doors opened and the crowd began to file inside.

 

 

Moloko was one of Yuri’s favorite places in St Petersburg. It was a true punk club--covered in graffiti and old posters depicting the greats of punk and metal. No matter how quickly things changed in a city as cosmopolitan as St Petersburg, Moloko stayed the same, one of the few constants Yuri could count on.

They hovered at the edge of the mosh pit as the opening band stumbled through their set, sipping beer and watching the crowd as it swarmed behind around them, vodka soaked and smelling of unwashed leather and old cigarette smoke. Yuri sidled up next to Otabek and looped a lazy arm around his midsection. Overcome with a burst of affection, Yuri leaned in to peck a kiss onto Otabek’s plush lips, which were shiny with the beer he’d been drinking.

At the last moment, Otabek turned his head. Yuri’s open mouth hit his jaw. His open mouth caught the corner of Otabek’s jaw and left a lurid spit-slick stain on his skin.

Yuri rubbed his teeth with his tongue, his mouth drawn tight. _So it’s like that, then._ “What the fuck, Beka?”

Otabek gave him a stern look. “We’re in _public_ , Yuri.”

“These guys are nihilists, you know. No one gives a fuck what we do.”

“Yuri, not _here_.”

But Yuri stomped his foot. A little bit of his beer swished over his fingers at the sudden gesture. “We’re surrounded by nihilists! Look at these people, Beka--there’s some guy in a gimp suit on a leash, OK?” He pointed to a dark corner in a bar, where a man wearing a full-face leather mask was indeed on a leash. “I think two dudes kissing is pretty vanilla for these people.”

“You’re being a brat.” Yuri didn’t get it--no matter where they went, they were still international athletes. Perhaps ice skaters were not quite national heroes the way the local hockey team was, but they were recognizable.

Yuri’s eyes might have been bleary with alcohol, but his words were crisp and clean as the hatred behind them. “Yeah well, so what if I am? Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a _coward_.”

Otabek went still, then slammed the rest of his drink with a defiant jut of his jaw, then turned and headed to the bar without even bothering to ask if Yuri wanted another round.

The crowd swelled between them, and Yuri took a deep swig of his beer. It was malty and slightly stale and the alcohol content was altogether far too low for his purposes, but he drank it down anyway, unable to stop the unease swirling in his stomach.

 

 

 _Coward_. The word had cut Otabek to the core. It was not untrue: he hadn’t been able to tell his own sister what Yuri was to him when she’d asked him point blank--what made him think that he’d be able to tell a bar full of strangers?

Shit. He’d fucked up. He never should have agreed to take Yuri here... Luckily the bartender was headed his way. Otabek ordered two double shots of vodka on the rocks and his fingers twitched, anxiously drumming on the bar as he waited for his drinks.

Finally, the bartender slid the two glasses his way. The vodka was cool in his hand, yet burned his throat on the way down. He ordered another beer, then headed back out into the crowd, fortified by the booze.

He saw Yuri standing at the edge of the mosh pit, empty beer bottle in hand, but he did not close the distance between them. Neither did Yuri.

So Otabek swallowed another mouthful of cheap beer. When he looked back at the place where Yuri had been standing, the blond man was no longer there.

 

 

Yuri pushed his way through the sweaty, heaving mass of bodies, his empty beer bottle discarded. He didn’t normally join the mosh pit at these shows, all too aware that the type of violence the crowd of nihilists and anarchists favored could cause a season-ending injury, but tonight his whole body was taut with anger that he needed to let out.

The grace with which Yuri normally moved was absent, replaced by flailing fists and drop kicks. Someone’s elbow caught him in the ribs, and Yuri spun blindly, satisfied by the impact of his fists against flesh.

Fuck Otabek, that asshole. If he hadn’t wanted to come out tonight, why had he even bothered to say yes? He’d spent most of the evening trying to get away from Yuri when the whole point of this stupid date had been to bring them closer--

Something made contact with Yuri’s jaw, and his head was thrown back with the force of it, yet all it did was feed his fury. _Fuck._ Maybe that was the whole problem... maybe Otabek had not wanted to _date_ him. Maybe he just wanted to be able to fuck Yuri in the privacy of his own home, not be boyfriends or anything more than friends who touched dicks sometimes...

The thought made the anger in Yuri’s veins flare up. He slammed his body into the roiling wall of people. A large man with a studded leather jacket and more piercings in his face than skin tossed him, and Yuri felt exhilarated by the violence. Fuck, he didn’t care how many bruises he’d end up with by the end of the night; it just felt too damn good to let his anger out. He couldn’t bring himself to punch Beka in the face, despite everything, but he could punch a stranger and not feel guilty about it.

Yuri let himself be tossed around for several more minutes, until his heart rate began to slow down and bile at the back of his throat was no longer bitter. He spent almost the entire show passing in and out of the mosh pit, so adrenaline-high that he could barely hear the blaring music over the pounding of his blood in his ears.

After the fourth song of Carpathian Forest’s set, Yuri was thirsty and starting to ache. Walking to the bar for some water and another beer, he almost didn’t see Otabek slumped across the bar, involved in a drunken conversation with some woman with dyed-blue hair and ripped fishnets who was standing altogether to close in Yuri’s opinion.

He quickly insinuated himself between the them. The woman Otabek had been talking with gave him a surprised and tight smile as he curled a possessive arm around his friend. He glared, and she shook her head, mouthing something about _fucking faggots_ as the crowd swallowed her. It did nothing to settle the venom that had flowed through his veins ever since Otabek had flinched away from his kiss.

“What the fuck, asshole?” Yuri growled.

Otabek was _wasted_. He smelled like a distillery, and he swayed on his feet, leaning into Yuri, who had no choice but to help keep him upright. “‘M drunk,” he slurred.

“Yeah, I can fucking see that,” he muttered, then flagged down the bartender to order two waters. He pushed the cool glass into Otabek’s hand, who took a thankful sip before spitting the liquid everywhere.

“This--this is fucking _water._ Are you trying to poison me?” Otabek’s Russian was thick with Kazakh and slurred with drink.

“I’m trying to save your ass from dying of alcohol poisoning,” Yuri sneered. “Drink the fuck up.”

Otabek finished his water without another complaint, then Yuri dragged him to the exit. He carefully arranged Otabek to sit against the curb while he hailed a cab, then unceremoniously loaded him into the car.

The whole ride back, Otabek sprawled out in the backseat, resting his sweaty head on Yuri’s lap. Despite everything, Yuri could not help the tenderness that the simple action awakened in him, and he carded his fingers through Beka’s hair as they hurtled through the nighttime streets toward home.

 

 

“Oh fuck, bed. I need a bed,” Otabek announced as soon as they stepped into the apartment. He stripped quickly, tossing his clothes on the floor as he stumbled down the hall to the bedroom then threw himself face-down on the pillows in nothing but his briefs, boneless.

Yuri pressed his body against Otabek’s with a suggestive quirk of his hips as he slid up Otabek’s solid form, face-down on the mattress wearing nothing but his briefs. He smelled like cinnamon and yeast, beer brewed with something exotic. He let his weight rest on top of Otabek, and took a deep breath. Somehow, he was no longer annoyed at Otabek for having acted like an ass all evening--perhaps he could even forgive the man, just a little bit, if it meant he could have Otabek beneath him, just like this....

His pent up adrenaline from the mosh pit suddenly surged into pure lust. Yuri was hard in an instant, could feel the way his cock throbbed hot and heavy with blood where it lay against Otabek’s thick, firm ass. He groaned. “Fuck, can you feel how much I want you?”

“Not tonight, Yura.” Otabek’s breath was beery where it kissed onto Yuri’s lips.

“Beka... I need...” he whined. He knew he was being bratty, but Otabek was _here_ , and he wouldn’t be _soon_. His blood throbbed in his veins, and in his dick. He rolled his hips again, and was surprised when Otabek flinched away.

“I said no, Yura!” Beka hollered, elbowing a stunned Yuri in the ribs as he turned to his side, leaving a considerable distance between them on the mattress. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

Yuri crawled to his corner of the bed. Folding his long limbs into himself, he curled into a ball.

Fuck, he’d really fucked up tonight, hadn’t he? Everything had gone wrong, from the moment they’d left the house: Otabek trying to put space between them as they stood in line outside Moloko, the way he’d rejected Yuri’s kiss and then ignored him for the rest of the night, then gotten so sloppy drunk that he couldn’t stand for Yuri to touch him. And it had all been because Yuri had called him a coward....

Yuri had not been prepared for the rush of guilt. He reached over and poked Otabek’s shoulder shoulder tentatively. “Hey.”

Otabek rolled over onto his back. “What?”

Yuri let out a breath, a long shaky thing. “You were right... I shouldn’t have said--”

“Fuck, Yuri, can we ... not, right now?” Otabek pulled the duvet tight around his ears.

“Look, Beka--I---”

“Yuri. Not now.... I gotta sleep.” He groaned, then turned his face to the pillow with a muffled _leave me alone_ , his back a thick broad barrier between them.

If Otabek had been looking, he would have seen Yuri’s eyes flash a virulent green. But he hadn’t been looking--that had been the problem the whole night long. As soon as they’d left the comfort of his apartment, Otabek had looked anywhere else other than Yuri.

He turned away from Otabek’s body, hot and solid beside him. His back burned from Otabek’s heat, hovering behind him, Yuri choking on his hatred and his horniness.

Soon enough, Otabek began snoring beerily into the pillow. Yet Yuri continued to toss and turn, restless.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Otabek did not stir, his snores regular and droning and Yuri watched him for a moment; his face was smashed into the pillows, a strand of drool trickling from the corner of his open mouth. In sleep, he was so unguarded in a way he never was awake, and the image grabbed Yuri by the heart and squeezed.

And yet Yuri couldn’t help the feeling that maybe Beka hadn’t _meant_ to give him this moment, hadn’t _meant_ to let his guard down so that Yuri could see him like this, vulnerable and defenseless. After all, Otabek had barely been able to touch him all night long, had shied away from any kind of contact that was anything other than platonic as if they hadn’t had their hands and mouths on each other just last night...

Something sour crept up Yuri’s esophagus, and he coughed. Beside him, Otabek mumbled something in his sleep, then smushed his face deeper into the pillow, and Yuri knew he couldn’t stay here. Not if it meant he had to lie next to Otabek and not touch him, not whisper the kinds of needy and embarrassing words that lingered on the tip of Yuri’s tongue.

As quietly as possible, Yuri got up and walked to the kitchen. There was beer in the fridge, though he ignored it in favor of the half-full bottle of vodka in the freezer. He did not bother with a shot glass; instead, he sipped directly from the bottle, sitting at the empty kitchen table and staring into space as he did so. The liquid in the bottle was steadily diminishing, but the restless feeling under his skin did not.

Yuri stood and grabbed the bottle, then began to pace around his dark apartment in an attempt to burn off some of the restless energy. Yet the apartment seemed too small to contain him; he felt as though his flesh would burst out of his skin at any moment.

In the window, he caught a glimpse of the empty late-night street, bathed a soft yellow from the streetlamps. His body made the choice for him--before he knew it, Yuri found himself shivering on his stoop, the bottle of vodka clutched in his hand.

He wandered the neighborhood for a while, walking quickly enough to get his blood pumping as he slowly stopped shaking. The vodka warmed him from the inside out, but it did not help to calm the anxious feeling that had settled inside him, torrid and tense.

Somehow, without knowing how he’d gotten here, he found himself at the river’s edge. The same river where he’d stood so many times, watching the lights dance across the water with Otabek--the same river where he’d so recently turned to Yuri and asked him if it was _too late_ , as though Yuri’s feelings were something that might expire--

He tossed the not-quite-empty bottle onto the rocks at the river’s edge, and was satisfied by the crashing sound of breaking glass, by the way the shards sparkled on the rocks. He was comforted by the destruction, then clenched his hands--now there was nothing left to break.

Yuri turned away from the water, and began the long walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all, thanks for sticking with this story! this chapter took forever.... the first draft was a much sillier thing, but then i realized some things about the characters and now.... well. we shall take a break from our regularly scheduled porn for some angst.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos inspire me to new lows. <3

**Author's Note:**

> the muse has a praise kink. comments feed the muse and make new chapters appear faster.


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